Forever
by Jess Riley
Summary: After a horrific crime turns their world upside down, Blair and Jim must rely on the strength of their friendship and their growing relationship as Sentinel and Guide to find their way back home. Please see warnings at the top of the story
1. Chapter 1

**FOREVER**

By

Jess Riley

_A friendship that survives adversity_

_Is a friendship that will last forever._

_~oOo~_

**Warnings: **_This story contains crimes of a religious nature and imagery of a crucifixion. As part of the past story line, it has scenes which re-tell rape and torture. If you are uncomfortable reading about these subjects, please do not go any further. _

**Acknowledgements: **_Thank you to StarWatcher and Bobbie for not only your invaluable beta help, but for giving me your opinions and letting me bounce ideas off you. The input I receive from you both is of an enormous benefit._

**Note: **_The character of Doctor Peter Mitchell once again returns in this story. To get an understanding of who he is and his relationship with both Jim and Blair, it is advisable to read, __Once a Medic __first. This story can be found at my page here._

**Summary**: _After a horrific crime turns their world upside down, Blair and Jim must rely on the strength of their friendship and their growing relationship as Sentinel and Guide to find their way back home. _

**Ratings**:_ This story is rated MA and while I've rated Part 1 as general, please be aware that part 2 does wander into the pre-slash realm. _

**Feedback: **_Always welcome _

~oOo~

_Fifteen years, nearly to the day._ In the grand scale of life, fifteen is years is a mere blip on the calendar, but for one impressionable and lonely young boy, fifteen years ago, nearly to the day, was a date in history that gave rise to a dream.

The date would change the course of two lives – forever.

~oOo~

_Fifteen years ago, nearly to the day_: Matthew Taylor remembered it vividly. That day marked the beginning of a young boy's dream of friendship, camaraderie and a partnership that would last a lifetime.

His birthday had come and gone, without a great deal of fanfare, but young Matthew Taylor didn't lament the lack of celebration, because his birthday brought with it exactly what he wanted – an extended bedtime, which meant that the very first episode of Starsky and Hutch was now well within his grasp. Even the unfair trade-off of a few more chores before school became an easy deal the moment the 'striped tomato' flew around the corner and screeched to a halt, introducing him to the coolest cops ever to have graced the television screen. From that moment on, he was captivated. Every Thursday night, without fail, he would take up a prime position on the living room floor, watching intently as rubber burned, guns blazed, and the bad guys were brought to justice by the best team on the tube. And in the midst of all the action and excitement, the notion of friendship began to take root deep within his psyche. Hutch would have given his life to save Starsky, and Starsk' would have done the same for Hutch. They belonged together, side-by-side, always. They were partners – together forever.

Matthew's tenth birthday turned to his eleventh, twelfth, and eventually his thirteenth, but he still hadn't managed to master the social skills to elevate himself to the status of 'one of the cool kids'. Shy and somewhat awkward in his manner, Matt never quite seemed to fit in within the circle of his peers. Always on the outside, saying or doing the wrong thing, he eventually gave up; he retreated, escaping from reality into his imagination. He made for himself a world where he was the hero, the tough guy, the one that always saved the day. And right next to him, sharing the victory and the spoils of battle, was his partner, his backup – his best friend.

As Matt grew into a man, _the_ perfect partner still eluded him, but the concept never strayed far from his mind. Bright and capable and not afraid of doing the grunt work to achieve his goals, he ascended the ranks of the police department, finally earning for himself the coveted promotion to detective. A temporary assignment to Cascade PD's Major Crime department was next, and Matthew grasped the opportunity with both hands. The cop of the year, _the_ perfect partner, was within arm's length and all he had to do now was to reach out and take it.

_**Part 1**_

Junior Detective Matthew Taylor casually entered the break room, the promise of a hot cup of coffee a mere prop in a well-timed ploy to finally get a chance to meet the man who, if he played his cards right, would become his new partner. Confidently striding up behind Detective James Ellison, Taylor made an effort to keep his demeanour friendly and light and, most importantly, likable. "Hear the coffee's not too bad around this place."

Jim Ellison looked up briefly. "It passes," he replied, ripping open a packet of sugar, and dumping the contents into one of the cups. "Taylor isn't it?" he asked, not really all that interested in the answer.

"Yes sir," Taylor answered, buzzed that the senior detective had remembered his name.

"You can skip the formalities." Jim dumped another two packets of sugar into one the cups. "Call me Jim." He extended his hand toward the young detective.

A smile of satisfaction lit up the junior detective's face. First introductions were going better than he had expected. Making sure his handshake was firm, Taylor's mind sought out a reply that would keep the conversation flowing along. "That's a lot of sugar, Jim. Take it you've got a sweet tooth?"

"It's not for me. It's for my partner."

"Partner?" The smile faded and Taylor's elation took a sudden nosedive. He'd done his homework thoroughly and, to his knowledge, Ellison didn't have a partner. Sure, there was the grad student from the university that Ellison seemed friendly with but, as far as he knew, the guy was just an observer working on his dissertation. He wasn't a cop and certainly wouldn't qualify as acceptable partner material to a man like Ellison.

Ellison threw the stirrer in the trash. "Yeah, he's a bit low on the energy this morning. Thought I'd give him a kick-start. Of course, if he had gone to bed at a decent hour like I told him, then we wouldn't be having this little problem." The last part of Jim's sentence was muttered, not really directed at Taylor, just musings of slight annoyance. Hearing the wheels of the food cart clattering down the hall, Ellison picked up the coffee cups. "That's my call."

Not quite prepared for their brief liaison to end, Taylor followed as Ellison left the room. "Could do with some sustenance myself," he said, immediately regretting his choice of words.

"Right," Jim, drawled, finally giving the pristinely dressed detective a quick head-to-toe visual. "Maybe you should try the buttermilk doughnuts." _If nothing else, they might give the impression that you're a cop._ On the move again, Ellison called out, "Hey, Julie, you got anything that Sandburg would eat?"

Pulling the cart to a halt at the sound of the detective's voice, the pretty young woman fished around in the baskets. "How does chicken and lettuce on wholegrain sound?"

"Sounds like Sandburg," Jim muttered, his eyes settling on a doughnut that would be the perfect accompaniment to his coffee.

"And a freshly baked treat for yourself?" she tempted.

Jim shook his head, deciding to err on the side of caution – especially given the mood Blair was in this morning. He thrust his coffee toward Taylor. "Here, hold this," he said, fishing a twenty out of his wallet. "Better give me one of those apples as well."

"So, no doughnuts?"

"It's not worth the drama." Pocketing his change, Jim headed down the hallway, with Taylor only a few steps behind.

~oOo~

Ellison sighed as he entered the bullpen. Sandburg was exactly where he had left him – glued to a chair on the other side of his desk, with papers still strewn from one end to the other. "You know, Chief, I think it's about time I talked to Simon about getting you your own desk." Trying to find a clear spot to put the coffee down, he gave up and swept a pile of papers to the side.

"Hey, be careful, will ya?" Blair grabbed at the toppling pile. "It took me ages to sort through that. You're messing with my system, man."

"System!" Jim scoffed. "you call this a system? Sandburg, I've seen preschoolers with better organisational skills than yours." He placed Blair's coffee on the desk and shoved the sandwich under his nose. "Here, drink this, and eat this while you're at it." Taking his own coffee from Taylor, Ellison muttered a quick thanks, but paid the new detective no more attention than that.

Although getting the firm message that his presence was no longer required, Taylor held his ground. To have any hope of getting a permanent assignment to the squad, he would have to make himself known. While he had no real interest in getting to know the grad student, if he had to go through the backdoor to get to Ellison, then that's exactly what he'd do. "Hi, my name's Matt Taylor," he said, thrusting out his hand. "I've been temporarily assigned to Major Crime."

"Oh, hey," Blair replied, still juggling papers. "Nice to meet you." He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Um, sorry, I didn't quite catch the name."

Annoyed, but letting it pass, Taylor did his best to be accommodating. "Taylor, Matthew Taylor."

Blair quickly shook the detective's hand. "I'm Blair ... Blair Sandburg."

Looking at the mass of papers cluttering the desk, Taylor again kept his voice light. "I hear you're working on your dissertation. Looks like you sure have your work cut out for you."

"Huh!" Blair's attention was back on Jim and his incessant tidying. "Oh this, no, this isn't my diss. I'm just going through a bit of information on the Churchyard murders."

Although it was Taylor's first day on the job, he was prepared and was fully up to date with the details of the murder case. From the information in the files, two horrendously-mutilated bodies had been found on the grounds of two separate churches. Both the victims were women, and both had been raped. Four detectives, as well as Captain Banks, were working the case; word was that if progress wasn't made by the end of the week, the Feds were going to take control of the proceedings. Given the high profile of the case, he was at a bit of a loss to understand why a department with the reputation of Major Crime would be tolerating the involvement of a university student. But, if _he_ could get a hand in, it could be his big chance to not only prove his worth, but also work alongside his future partner. With a quick glance at Ellison, and not failing to notice the frustration the detective seemed to be having with Sandburg, he made his move. "Looks like they've lumbered you with all the filing," he said.

Sandburg raised his eyebrows. "Ah, yeah something like that," he replied, only just managing to save the contents of a manila folder before it hit the floor.

"Alright, Chief, enough is enough." Ellison had just reached his tolerance limits. Sandburg had not only trashed his workspace, but the kid had made no attempt at all to touch the coffee or sandwich he had bought him. Reaching over, he grabbed the sandwich, peeled away the plastic wrap and dumped it on the pile of papers right in front of Blair. "Eat," he ordered.

"Okay, okay, keep your shorts on. I'm eating." Blair picked up the sandwich and took a bite. "You want some?" he asked.

"No, I don't want some." Jim pushed away Blair's hand. "Unlike you, I started the day off with a good, healthy breakfast."

"Yeah, pig fat and eggs drowned in oil is always the best way to kick-start the old metabolism. Breakfast of iron men." Blair took another bite and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee, nearly choking. "God Jim, how much sugar did you put in here?"

"Just enough to kick-start your metabolism."

"Or send me into sugar shock. What are trying to do? Turn me into a diabetic?"

"Oh, stop being so dramatic, Sandburg. It's good for you. Besides, a little sugar never hurt anyone. Take me for example." Ellison tapped Blair playfully on the forehead. "A glowing picture of health."

As the banter continued, Taylor found himself, once again, on the outside of the circle looking in. He was thankful for the interruption by Captain Banks.

"Okay people, listen up. We've got another body."

Ellison shot to his feet. "Where?"

"Outside of the church at Saint Hilda's Girls' School."

"Who found it?" Blair asked, praying that it wasn't one of the students.

"The gardener," Simon replied, also sending up a prayer of thanks that it wasn't one of the girls who had stumbled upon the corpse.

Jim grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair "What was the MO?"

"Same as the other two, only this time, the victim was male."

"And the injuries?" Blair asked.

"Among other things – had his buttocks sliced off."

"What!" Blair's reaction was mimicked by the other detectives listening in. "Oh man, that's gross."

"You're telling me," Banks muttered. He clapped his hands together. "All right, gentlemen, let's move. This department is copping a shit-load of flak at the moment. I want an arrest. Henri, go round up your partner and see if you can find Taggart. I want the three of you going through the files of the previous cases with a fine-toothed comb." Simon turned to Taylor. "You want to sit in? A fresh set of eyes might be just what we need."

Taylor was pumped. "Yes sir, of course." Although he might not be working directly with Ellison, he was now officially on the case and his goal was one step closer.

~oOo~

Jim held up the police tape, waiting for Blair to proceed before ducking under and making his way over to the coroner. "Have you established a cause of death yet?"

The coroner lifted away the sheet that covered the corpse. "I won't know for certain until I do the autopsy, but if I were to take a stab in the dark, my guess would be that he bled to death."

The ground beneath the body was soaked red, and the raw, butchered wounds were stained dark with congealing blood. "Has the rest of him been found?" Jim asked, referring to the two missing butt cheeks.

"No. What you see here is all we have."

"Are you able to tell if they were removed with any surgical precision?'

The coroner shook his head. "Judging by the ragged edges, I'd say it was most likely not."

Blair paled, as the medical examiner probed the wound. No matter how many crime scenes he attended and how many dead bodies he saw, it didn't seem to get any easier. Jim had told him once that he had to become detached, that he had to rein in his emotions, but he couldn't. He couldn't view the victim as just a corpse, a piece of evidence that needed to be dissected and studied in order to solve a crime. They were people – somebody's mother, father – somebody's child. Jim's hand lightly fingered his arm. "Chief, why don't you go wait in the truck?"

Blair studied Jim's expression, trying to gauge whether or not the detective was disappointed in him again for his weakness.

The gentle squeeze he felt on his shoulder gave him his answer.

~oOo~

"Jim?" Cornered by Simon the moment he stepped foot through the door, Ellison didn't even have to time to peel off his jacket. "We might have another lead. Taylor has linked all three victims to Saint Andrew's Hospital. Each one of them was admitted within the past two months."

Taking the file Ellison scanned the information. "How'd you make the connection, Taylor?"

Taylor's chest puffed out, ever so slightly. "Well, Jim, I was going over the coroner's report on each of the victims, and every one of them had evidence of recent wounds that had been surgically treated. I checked with the local hospitals and found that they had all been admitted to the same one, and treated by the same doctor."

Ellison slapped Taylor on the back. "Good work, detective." He tucked Taylor's notes under his arm. "Why don't I go and pay the good doctor a little visit?"

"Jim, take Taylor with you."

Ellison raised his eyebrows at the request. Banks knew that, apart from Sandburg, he worked better alone.

"He did the legwork," Simon stated by way of explanation. "It's only fair he should follow it up."

Not happy, but relenting, Jim made his way out the door, expecting Taylor to follow. "Two rules when you ride with me, Taylor. No eating in the truck, and if I tell you to stay put, you do exactly that."

"Yes sir. I mean, yes Jim. Absolutely – whatever you say."

Ellison turned around and gave Simon a wink. "A man that follows orders. I like that."

~oOo~

Jim knew that Blair was in the vicinity the minute he stepped off the elevator. Like the other strange anomalies that had been happening ever since the kid had gotten his hands on a folder of research from Peter Mitchell, he filed this one right alongside them in the '_I'll ask Sandburg when I have fifteen hours to spare to listen to the explanation'_ basket.

With quick steps, he moved toward the bullpen, thankful when Taylor veered off and headed into the break room. "Sandburg, why are you here?" he asked, moving to stand behind Blair. "I thought you were going to head home after class." When Blair didn't look up from the computer screen, or even attempt to answer his question, Jim moved closer and tapped him on the head. "Earth to Sandburg."

"Oh, hey, Jim." Blair glanced up briefly. "Where have you been?"

"Taylor and I have been down at Saint Andrew's checking on a lead. As it turns out, all of the victims were patients of a Doctor Hetherington."

Blair stopped typing. "You think he's the one?"

"He has an alibi for each of the murders."

Blair lowered his voice a notch. "Did you monitor his heartbeat? Was he lying?"

"No increase, and besides, he has a dozen witnesses confirming that he was in surgery."

"So the connection to the hospital is just a coincidence?'

"No such thing as a coincidence in a murder investigation, Chief." Jim leaned over Blair's shoulder and focused on the computer screen. "What are you working on?"

"I'm just following a hunch. The injuries of the last victim got me thinking."

"Jim," Taylor interrupted. "I thought you might need a cup of coffee. It's just how you like it. Two sugars."

"Um, thanks," Ellison replied, not trying to sound too grateful. The junior detective was still finding his feet, but he had no intention of giving the kid the impression that his niche would be found with him. When Taylor made no effort to evacuate from his personal space, he asked, "Is there something you wanted to ask me?"

"Actually, I was wondering what our next move should be? I was thinking that maybe we should start sifting through the hospital staff registry to see if any other personnel were on duty at the time all three victims were admitted."

"You know, that's an excellent idea, Taylor. Why don't you get started and give me a yell if you come up with anything."

"Well, I thought that maybe we should work on it together, you know, considering that we've both done the initial legwork." Taylor just managed to stop himself before the word 'partner' slipped out of his mouth.

"Actually, I'm just gonna check on what Sandburg's come up with."

"Oh." Taylor's shoulders slumped and he once again found himself being that awkward kid that nobody wanted around. "I guess I'll get started then. I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

"You do that. Keep me posted."

When Matt Taylor was out of earshot, Blair began. "Kick a puppy, why don't'cha."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing. Just think you may have found yourself a groupie."

"A groupie," Jim repeated, placing his hands on Blair's shoulders.

"Or it could go deeper than that," Blair teased, blissfully unaware of Jim's intentions. "It could be love." He let out a short, sharp laugh. "Actually I think it might be lust."

Ellison strategically placed his thumbs on the sensitive spot at the top of Blair's scapulae. "Love," he said, bearing down with just the right amount of pressure.

"Ow, that hurts!" Blair yelped, squirming as Jim's fingers dug into his flesh.

Jim gave one final squeeze before releasing the pressure. "Good, it was meant to."

"Geez, man." Blair attempted to rub the sting out of his ill-treated flesh. "Take a joke?"

"Jim!" Simon pulled open the door to his office with enough force that it rattled the glass in the window. "What's the status?"

"Doctor Hetherington has an alibi, sir. Taylor's going through the staff records at the moment to see if we can link anyone else to the dates of all three admissions."

"So you think we're heading in the right direction?"

Like an anxious puppy, desperate for some attention and approval, Taylor was back at Jim's side. "I'm ... that is, Jim and I are fairly confident that one of the staff is involved, sir. It will take me a while to sift through the records, but I plan to stay with it until I come up with something concrete."

Banks gritted a smile. "That's what I like to see, Taylor – enthusiasm."

"More like brown-nosing," Brown mumbled, discretely.

"Bingo!" Sandburg smacked Ellison's desk with his hand. "Shudra," he announced. "I knew I'd heard of it before."

Simon, Brown and even Joel, threw Blair a look that screamed,_'what half baked theory has the kid come up with this time?'_

"Guys, just hear me out," Blair said, well versed in the look. He pushed his chair back and rounded the desk. "Mr. Kohinoor was Indian. He was a Hindu. The murderer must have considered him a Shudra."

"Sandburg, if this is going somewhere, make it quick, because I've got not only the commissioner breathing down my back, but the Mayor's chewing a hole in my ass the size of New York City." Patting down his pockets in search of a cigar, the tone in Simon's voice portrayed a man under extreme pressure. "And what the hell is a Shudra, anyway?"

"It's part of the caste system that the Hindu religion is based upon."

"And that's important because?"

"It's a Hindu punishment, Simon. In the Hindu religion, whatever class you are born into is what you are meant to stay. You can't ascend to the next level until your next life. Mr. Kohinoor had just enrolled in night school. He was trying to improve his education so he could get a better job. Don't you see? The murderer must have classed him as a Shudra, and the punishment for a Shudra who tries to seek equality with those outside his class is to have his buttocks sliced away."

"So you're saying we should be looking for a Hindu?"

"No, not necessarily. I think the murderer is somebody who is versed in a variety of religious practices."

"And you base this on what?" Simon asked, now listening intently.

Blair went into automatic teacher mode. "Okay, the first victim, Emily Donahue. She was a Quaker, right?"

"Yeah, go on," Ellison encouraged.

"Well, back in the late sixteen hundreds, it was illegal for a Quaker to preach any other form of religion. Punishment for this could have been as mild as being outcast to another town, or as barbaric as having your ears docked, your hands branded and holes bored in your tongue. In the most serious cases, after being tortured, the person was hung."

Brown tapped the coroner's report with his finger. "Similar injuries to Emily Donahue."

"Emily was a teacher, Jim. She taught religious education."

Ellison got to his feet and started to pace. "Okay, so what have we got on victim number two?"

"This is where it starts to get spooky. Victim number two, according to the file, was a Wiccan. She practiced witchcraft."

"And her injuries were consistent with a form of punishment how?"

Blair snatched the file from Henri's desk. "Two broken legs, two broken arms and the final blow that killed her was a strike to her sternum." Blair threw the file back down. "Don't you see the connection? She wasn't just beaten to death. She was tied to a wheel and dealt out a punishment consistent with killing a witch."

Taylor had also been listening intently, but the theory seemed a little too farfetched in his mind to be taken seriously. "So where do the rapes tie in with all of this?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Blair shrugged. "It's not commonplace to use rape as a punishment for religious discrepancies."

"I think you might be onto something here, Chief." Ellison's thoughts were now racing. "I think we've been concentrating on the wrong profession. We need to start checking out databases for any priests, rabbis, any church-based workers who may have been convicted or suspected of sexual improprieties."

"All right, people. It looks like Sandburg might have just given us a new angle. H, Rafe, go back over the evidence and all the reports. Look for anything that may lay claim to Sandburg's theory. Jim, I want you and Sandburg to start checking those lists." Simon briefly glanced at the junior detective. "Taylor, take a look at the personnel list we got from the hospital –"

"Hang on," Ellison interrupted. "Doesn't Saint Andrew's have a priest on staff?"

Taylor quickly flipped through the information. "Yes. A Reverend Maxwell Boyd."

Jim looked at Simon, and Banks nodded. "Go," he ordered. "I want to know what Reverend Boyd was up to on the nights of the murders."

Taylor grabbed his jacket, preparing for the drive back to the hospital, but his enthusiasm was cut short. Jim was already halfway out the door, yelling at his partner. "Sandburg, you coming?"

Standing in the middle of the room like a kid who had just been left at the gas station restrooms while his parents continued their journey, Matt Taylor couldn't quite comprehended what had just gone wrong. A short time ago, he was the centre of attention, the smart one, the one who had made the connection to the hospital. So why now was he the left standing on the outside of the circle – again?

"Taylor!" Banks snapped. "Don't just stand there, man. Get to work on that list."

Snatching his backpack off the floor, Blair headed toward the exit. "Simon, you should add students of theology to that list. The murderer seems to have an intimate knowledge of religious punishments. It might pay to check to see if any courses have covered this curriculum."

"Good idea; now get going before your partner leaves you behind ... and Sandburg,"

"Yeah, Captain?"

"Good work, kid."

Blair's face lit up with a brilliant smile. "Thanks, man."

~oOo~


	2. Chapter 2

"Gentlemen, take a seat, please." The Reverend M. Boyd was very congenial in both his manner and his manners. "How can I help you?"

"You can help by telling me where you were on the nights of the first, ninth and fifteenth of June," Ellison said.

"I was away on sabbatical. I left on the twenty-fifth of May and didn't return until June twentieth." The Reverend clasped his hands together tightly and placed them on the desk. "May I ask what this is all about?"

"Is there anyone who can verify this information?" Jim's stony glare didn't complement the priest's congeniality.

"Of course there is." The reverend pulled open the top drawer of his desk, riffling through it briefly before pulling out a card. "You can call Father Thomas. He can confirm my attendance." He handed the card over to Ellison. "Can't you at least tell me why you need to know this information?"

"Because we believe that the Churchyard murders have something to do with this hospital."

"And you suspect me?" the Reverend asked, in complete surprise.

"Everyone who works here is suspect at this point, Reverend."

Blair nudged the sentinel's foot with his own and the detective knew exactly what his partner was getting at. The reverend wasn't lying. He'd been monitoring the man's heartbeat closely and there was no indication to suggest that he wasn't telling them the truth. Jim shook his head slightly, and mouthed a quiet 'no'.

"Reverend?" Blair asked. "While you were away, who took over your duties?"

"Well nobody, officially. If I'm absent, the hospital relies on the kindness of the students. They make up a roster so that one of them is on hand at all times."

"What students?" Ellison asked.

"We have several students come to the hospital to lend a helping hand, Detective. They come from various religious institutions to gain practical experience. Some keep coming back even after they've finished their studies. It's a Godsend really. They ease my workload considerably."

"Do you have a list of these students?"

"Not on hand. But the personnel department would have. They all have to be registered for insurance purposes. I can arrange to have their files sent to your office, if you wish?"

"Thank you." Jim got to his feet and took a card from his wallet. "If you think of anything else that may be of use, you can contact me at this number at any time."

"So what now?" Blair asked, stepping into the foyer.

"Now, Chief, we go check and see how god fearing students of theology really are."

~oOo~

Matthew Taylor was nursing his fourth scotch; his mood was despondent and dejected, due to the tedious monkey-work that had been his day. He hadn't spent the past few years working his ass off to play second fiddle – especially not to some upstart grad student who had stolen his thunder. He was the experienced cop, not Sandburg. He should have been the one out in the field with Ellison and Sandburg should have been assigned the paperwork – or technically, not assigned to anything at all.

"Another?" the bartender asked.

Draining his glass, Taylor slammed the heavy tumbler on the bar, "You betch'ya."

"Bad day?" Topping up the glass, the bartender inquired further, "You wanna talk about it?" The bar was situated close to the Cascade PD, and provided the perfect location for him to supplement his income by passing on rumours and titbits that he happened to overhear from the boys in blue. One reporter at The Times, in particular, was very generous in his remuneration. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

"How'd you tell?" Taylor asked.

"I dunno, I guess you just look like a cop. Hey, I bet the Churchyard murders are running you ragged. Getting any closer to solving it?"

"We got a few leads," Matt slurred, the whiskey finally making an impact. "In my opinion we're heading in the wrong direction, but who am I to say? I'm just the new guy, after all. Guess if they wanna put their faith in the 'cop wanna-be', who am I to argue?"

"Cop wanna-be?"

"Yeah, a guy called Sandburg. He's hanging around Major Crime, thinkin' he's God's gift to the department. He's just a snot-nosed college student, but they seem to take everything he says like gospel. Because of him, I spent the whole fuckin' afternoon sifting through data bases."

"Looking for what?" The bartender knew he was pushing his luck, but the guy seemed pretty well on the way to being plastered. Who knew, maybe a little push in the right direction just might open the floodgates.

"The upstart's got some idea that the Churchyard murderer is some fucked-up priest or rabbi trainee with a sexual problem."

Bingo! _Looks like I'll be able to afford to take Mel away for the weekend, after all_. "You want one for the road?" the bartender asked.

Unaware that his jealous meanderings had instigated a tragic chain of events, Matthew Taylor downed another round before heading home to continue wallowing in his own self-pity.

~oOo~

"Sandburg, you seen this?" Bursting through the front door, attempting to bottle his anger, Jim threw the newspaper down on the kitchen table, nearly knocking over Blair's coffee in the process.

Blair let out a long-suffering sigh. They were all tense and on edge, but he wasn't in the mood for one of Jim's little outbursts this morning. While Ellison had come home and been able to enjoy a good night's sleep, he'd stayed up for long hours, trying to catch up on his university work, and was dog-tired. "Yeah Jim," he replied sarcastically. "I got up extra early, went downstairs, read the paper and left it there in the foyer for you to bring up. I do these things just to piss you off."

"Enough with the smart mouth, Junior. Take a look at the headline."

Blair picked up the paper and reached for his glasses. "Holy shit," he murmured, paling visibly, when the bold letters impacted. "Jim, I didn't. I swear I didn't say a word. I didn't talk to anyone." He ran his hand though his hair and got to his feet. "You know I would _never_ divulge any information about a case."

Jim sat down heavily on the kitchen chair. "I wasn't accusing you, Chief."

Blair began to pace. "You might not be, but what about Simon?" He picked up the paper. "It's right here in black and white. 'Blair Sandburg, consultant with the Cascade PD, believes that the perpetrator may have a past history in a religious institution. They are concentrating their efforts on any member of the clergy with a past in sexual improprieties '." The phone rang, making Blair jump. "Oh shit," he ground out.

"Have some faith, partner." Jim got to his feet, and squeezed Blair's shoulder before reaching for the phone.

"_Ellison!"_ Simon's voice was so loud that even Blair could hear him.

"Captain." Jim tensed, preparing for an argument. He knew Blair wasn't involved in the leak and if Simon wanted to push, then he'd push back.

"_Jim, the personnel files from the hospital have just arrived. How soon can you be down here?"_

"Leaving now, Simon," Jim replied, stripping off his robe as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

"_I assume you've seen the paper?"_

"Yes sir."

"_How's the kid?"_ The concern in Simon's voice immediately doused the fire in Jim's defensive mood.

"Surprised and anxious, but he'll be fine."

"_Yeah, well you just make sure you keep him out of the firing line until we get this mess sorted out."_

"Already a given, sir." Hanging up the phone, Jim threw the receiver down on the bed. "Chief, are you moving?"

"Like the wind," Blair called out, already pulling on his shoes.

~oOo~

Ellison didn't need the aid of his enhanced senses to hear the argument taking place behind closed doors. He glanced at Brown, who just shrugged his shoulders.

The phone in Simon's office was slammed down and the door yanked open. "Jim, I need to talk to you. _Now_!"

"Why, what's up?"

"The commissioner has just pulled Sandburg's ride-along pass, that's what's up."

"What! Simon that's a load of crap and you know it."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the commissioner, because at the moment they consider him to be too much of a security risk. Until the investigation is completed, Sandburg's out of action."

"Bullshit," Jim swore. He knew damn well that Blair hadn't said anything to the press, and so did Simon, but the question was – who had? "Taylor." Jim's thinking may have been unfounded, but to him, the answer was perfectly obvious. He looked around the room in search of the missing detective. "Anyone seen Taylor this morning?"

Joel was the first to answer. "He hasn't arrived yet." He caught Jim's eye. "But Blair's in the corridor."

Directly on the other side of the bullpen window, Blair had been held up by a conversation with one of the uniforms.

"Jim, do you want me to tell him?" Simon asked.

Ellison shook his head. "No, he's my partner. I'll do it."

"Hey guys," Blair said, finally able to break away.

"Chief, I ..."

Blair held up hand, effectively silencing Jim's words. "Let me guess. My pass has been pulled."

Simon let out a long and weary sigh. "I'm sorry, kid. I tried, but it's out of my hands."

"It wasn't anything I wasn't expecting," Blair answered. "I mean, it was my name and my picture that was plastered all over this morning's paper." He adjusted his pack against his shoulder. "But hey, look on the bright side, I'm way behind at the university anyway, and this'll give me a chance to get on top of things." He glanced over at Jim. "Guess I'll see you tonight, man."

Jim moved in and reached out to lightly squeeze Sandburg's arm. "I'll give you a ride home."

"Jim, you just concentrate on catching the murderer, okay? Besides," Blair said, returning the touch, "the walk will give me a chance to clear my head."

Their eyes locked, and Blair recognised all too well the look in Ellison's eyes; the detective wanted the head of whoever had leaked the information, and he wouldn't stop until that same head was rolling across the floor. "Jim, promise me you won't interfere with the investigation into the leak?"

Ellison shifted his gaze.

"Jim," Blair said again, this time with a little more conviction.

"I promise." The tone of Jim's voice bore a heavy reluctance and left Blair with the feeling that, despite his request, the minute he walked out the door, Jim would be on the warpath.

"Come on," Ellison said, still avoiding direct eye contact. "It's too far to walk. Let me drive you."

Blair hesitated briefly. He was no longer officially involved in the case, but it didn't mean that he couldn't pass on unofficial information. "Simon, before I left yesterday I took a quick look at the files and the photos from the hospital. The first four volunteers on the list come from Saint John's Monastery. Don't ask me why, but I've got a hunch that this is where you should start."

Simon nodded. "Your hunches are good enough for me, kid." His statement was a subtle way of letting Blair know that he had his full support. To back it up, he plucked the case file from Jim's desk and dragged his finger down the list. "Brown, Rafe, you take numbers five through nine. Taggart, as soon as Taylor arrives, you get onto numbers ten through thirteen."

"Care to run that last line again?" Jim said, almost a little too calmly.

"Jim, I'm short-handed enough as it is, so until proven otherwise, Taylor is innocent and will remain as an active member of this department." He slapped the file back down on the desk, not prepared to take an ounce of Ellison's attitude. "You and I have numbers one through four, and it's a five-hour round trip to Saint John's. Sandburg, we'll give you a lift home on the way."

Passing the break room on their way out, Ellison spotted Taylor hunkered miserably over a cup of coffee in the furthest corner of the room. Swinging his arm lightly around Blair's shoulder and using his body to block the kid's view, he pushed him ahead. "Hey guys, I'm just going to go take a quick bathroom break. I'll meet you down in the garage."

"Yeah, well, hurry up." Simon stabbed at the elevator button. "I wanna beat the traffic."

Waving them away, Jim headed back down the hall and toward the restrooms. As soon as he heard the elevator door slide shut, he backtracked and headed back toward the break room.

"Headache?" he asked, striding up behind Taylor.

The young detective jumped slightly, before realising that it was only Ellison behind him. "Yeah, I didn't get much sleep last night."

Jim pulled out a chair and took a seat. "That wouldn't have anything to do with a certain breech of information that somehow found its way to The Cascade Times, would it?"

Taylor lifted his head. His eyes were bleary and puffy and his pupils were dilating rapidly. "No ... absolutely not," he began in protest.

"I've been in this game a long time, Taylor and I can spot a lying bastard through the eye of a needle." Jim leaned over the table. "My partner has had his pass pulled because of your big mouth, and that makes me a very unhappy man. When I'm unhappy, I get cranky, and you can ask anyone around here what I'm like when I get cranky." He closed in, making the gap that separated them impossibly small. "So if you want to see a smile on my face when I get back, you had better get yourself down to internal affairs and have a little chat with them, because I give you fair warning, my friend, that if you don't, you're gonna wish that the doctor had never slapped your scrawny backside to get you breathing."

Taylor swallowed hard. Unable to summon the courage to face up to Ellison, he simply nodded with the sinking realisation that it was his own fault. A simple slip of his tongue, fuelled by nothing more than jealousy, had forevermore left his dream of becoming an integral part of the police department's greatest team just that – an unattainable dream.

Pushing out of his chair, Jim drew himself to his feet. "That's what I like to see," he said in disgust. "A man who follows orders."

~oOo~

Simon's car pulled up in front of the loft, and Blair pushed open the door. He felt strangely awkward and, for once, at a loss for words.

"You staying home?" Jim asked, breaking the silence.

Stepping onto the pavement, Blair shrugged his shoulders. "Not sure. I might head down to the library later on. I've got some research to catch up on."

A sense of foreboding washed over Ellison. If he'd been operating strictly in 'detective mode', he might have ignored it, but somewhere between the station and the loft, the sentinel had risen. "Chief, do me a favour, will you? Stay home today. At least until I get back."

Blair slung his backpack over his shoulder. "Why?" he asked.

"I don't know 'why' Sandburg. All I know is that I want you to stay home."

The Guide and Sentinel suddenly connected and Blair found himself nodding in agreement.

"Good," Jim replied. "And Chief, do me one last favour."

"Please don't say scrub the bathroom."

"Keep the door locked."

"So, no bathroom?"

"There'd be no point in that, since I always have to redo it anyway."

Blair waved Simon and Jim away. "Took you long enough to realise that."

The smile faded from the sentinel's face as he watched his guide disappear through the front doors. Their connection seemed to be growing with each passing week and, while Blair knew more about the theory side of Sentinels and Guides than he did, Jim was still in no particular hurry to have the floodgates swing open wide. His inner detective once again gained higher ground and quashed the sentinel urge that told him to stay and to protect the guide.

~oOo~

A still figure stood in the shadows of the alley, watching as the sedan pull away from the curb. Once it was out of sight, a man stepped into the light, plucking the front page of the Cascade Times from his jacket pocket. "Blair Sandburg," he whispered, almost reverently, "Look at you. You are perfect." He ran his fingers down the photo, tracing the outline of Blair's long, curly hair. "My _perfect_, Jewish sacrifice."

~oOo~

"Wow, some place." The palatial building that confronted them as Simon pulled the sedan to a stop was not in keeping with the usual style of monastery.

"Yeah, wow is right," Ellison agreed. "Now this is my kind of priest palace."

A monk, fully robed, descended the front stairs quickly, eager to greet them, and equally as keen to enquire as to the purpose of their visit. "Nice place," Simon commented as he unfolded his long legs from the car.

"Yes, we are indeed very fortunate here at Saint John's." The monk worked his hands into the sleeves of his robe. "I'm Brother Martin; I welcome you in the name of Our Lord. Are you here to see one of our brethren, or are you here to enquire about our weekend getaways?" He looked the two men over. "We have a very open mind here at Saint John's and all are welcome. We have no problem in accommodating alternate couples." He flashed a congenial smile. "Would you like to see one of our guest rooms, or perhaps a brochure on one of our many packages?"

Simon took a step away from Ellison, glaring at him when the detective took one step closer. "We're not here as a couple," he said, gruffly. "I'm Captain Banks and this is Detective Ellison of the Cascade PD. We are here in relation to four of your brethren." He pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to the monk. "Do you recognize any of these names?" he asked.

The monk took the paper, reading it quickly. "Why yes, of course. Brother Samuel, Brother Michael, and Brother James. All are in attendance at our monastery." He handed the list back. "But I'm afraid you've made a mistake with Anthony. He is not one of our brethren. Anthony is our gardener."

"Is he here?" Jim asked.

"No, not at the moment, Detective. Anthony is away visiting friends, but you're quite welcome to see his room. We have nothing to hide at Saint John's, and doors are never locked."

Jim and Simon followed the monk down several paths, passing through pristinely manicured lawns and gardens. Spotting a heated swimming pool and tennis court, Jim finally asked, "Doesn't this place kind of go against the whole poverty thing that you guys have going?"

"We at Saint John's believe that one doesn't have to live in poverty to do God's work, Detective. We pay our dues," he added. "The Brothers of Saint John's are all actively involved in a number of charities, and we don't take our good fortune for granted. We believe that this monastery is God's reward for all the hard work and kindness we do on his behalf, and we all know that those souls who work hard are the ones who reap the rewards." The monk paused outside a small building. "Here we are, gentlemen." He opened the door to a well-furnished guest-house set away from the main building.

"Thank you." Simon peered into the room, taking an immediate mental catalogue. "And Brother Martin, we'd still like to talk to the other Brothers; Samuel, Michael and James."

"Certainly, Captain. They are in prayer at the moment, but I'll have them come to the conservatory in fifteen minutes." The monk made his way back up the path. "You can't miss it," he called over his shoulder. "Just follow the information signs posted along the path."

"Sandburg, you asshole," Jim muttered, as he bent down to feel the feather-soft mattress. Not missing Banks' questioning glance, he clarified. "You'd say that, too, Simon, if you'd spent a weekend at Saint Sebastian's. I'll bet you that little runt knew about this place all along." He looked over at the television mounted on the wall. "And I bet it's got cable."

Simon made his way around the room, picking up a few items that were on the dresser. "Forsythe must be a neat freak. Everything's spotless."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "Even by my standards." He pulled open the freezer door to inspect the contents. "Now what do we have here?" he said, holding up a plastic zip-lock bag.

"Oh, Lord, please don't tell me that's the missing part of victim number three?"

"Looks like frozen butt cheeks to me, sir."

With his cell phone now to his ear, Simon followed Jim back up the path, following the signposts to the conservatory. A blast of warm air hit them in the face as Jim swung open the door. Spotting the same monk that had greeted them upon arrival, Jim moved into the room. "Brother, do you have any idea where your gardener may have gone?"

"No, I'm not sure, Detective. He often goes away, but never tells anyone where he goes."

"Does he have any family members or friends that you know about?"

"Not that I know of. Anthony is very much a loner. He doesn't tend to socialise with the Brothers."

"Well, do you know anything at all about his past?"

"I know that he once was studying to be a priest. I'm not sure of the circumstances, but he dropped out midway through his training. It's a shame really, because he is a very gifted speaker. Well versed in the Bible and very knowledgeable on a great number of religions – even those considered heathen."

Simon disconnected his cell. "Brother, police investigators will be here shortly to go over Forsthye's room. In the meantime, it's to be left untouched." He handed over his card. "If Forsythe does happen to return, or you can think of anything that might be useful, please call my number immediately."

"Captain, I don't understand. What's going on?"

"It looks like your gardener just may be involved in a murder case."

"Oh, my Lord." Brother Martin paled. "I must go and round up the brothers. We will need to pray. This is not good," he muttered.

Hearing police sirens in the distance, Simon watched as the portly monk scampered toward the main buildings. "Not good at all," he agreed.

~oOo~

"Jim, are you okay?" They were on the road, headed back to Cascade, and Simon couldn't help but notice the way Jim kept fingering his temples. "Headache?"

"No, it's my eyes."

"What's wrong with them?"

"I'm not sure. They're just super-sensitive all of a sudden."

"You bring sunglasses?"

"No." Jim pressed the palm of his hand against his right eye. "I left them in the truck."

Reaching over, Simon pulled a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment. "Here, Daryl left these last weekend."

Without hesitation, Jim took the glasses, about to mutter a quick 'thanks', when the pain intensified. "Simon, something's not right."

"You want me to pull over?"

A frantic edge tinged Ellison's voice. "No, not with me ... with Sandburg."

Simon flashed a look that spoke volumes on its own.

"Simon, I'm serious." Jim pulled his cell out of his jacket pocket. "Something's up."

"And you know this, how?" Simon asked, watching as Ellison punched numbers into the phone.

"Call it a hunch."

"What is it with you and the kid? Always hunches."

"Hunches which are seldom wrong," Ellison stated.

The closer they got to Cascade, the more anxious Jim became. He'd tried calling home, only to have the phone go through to the answering machine. "Can't you go any faster?" he finally snapped.

"Jim, I'm doing the speed limit."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's time to be doing more than the limit." Digging under the seat, he fished around until his fingers touched the police bubble light. Pulling it out, he mounted it on the dashboard. The look he sent his Captain shouted his urgency. "Please," was all he said.

"Alright, alright." Banks pressed down on the accelerator. "It's still gonna take us at least twenty minutes."

"I know." Jim was back on the phone, punching numbers. Blair would kill him for doing this, but dealing with a pissed off Sandburg was a far better option than having to deal with the foreboding inner voice that was telling him to 'protect the guide'. "Yeah, Brown, it's Jim. Hey, do you think you guys could swing by the loft and check on Sandburg for me? – Why? Because he was a little upset about the whole pass thing and I can't reach him on the phone, that's why. Yes, H, I'm well aware of the dangerous situation I'm putting you in, but there's a pizza and a beer in it for you. – You will? Thanks H, I owe you." Aware that Simon's eyes were on him, Jim focused straight ahead. "Just keep your eyes on the road," he snapped.

~oOo~

Ellison was out of the car before Simon even had a chance to pull it to a complete stop. The niggling feeling he'd had ever since he'd dropped Blair off had grown considerably, and he was having trouble containing the feeling of sheer panic that came with it. Stabbing at the elevator button several times without result, panic won, and he bounded up the two flights of stairs. The moment his foot hit the third floor landing, be broke into a run, his heart leaping to his throat when he was confronted with a front door that was swung wide open. "Sandburg?" he yelled, breaching the entrance and heading straight for the small room under the stairs.

The sentinel pulled up short. The stench of stale sweat and blood attacked his sense of smell, making him gag, and a sight too shocking to be real, violently assaulted his vision. Hanging from a cross which had been constructed from the base of the futon bed, nails skewering his hands and feet in a grotesque parody of Christ, was Blair.

In an act of utter betrayal, Jim's knees gave way, sending him crashing to the floor. Blair's weak heartbeat pounded in his ears, and the harsh grate of his laboured breathing was almost deafening, but Jim couldn't move. He covered his ears with his hands to try and block it out, to try and gain some measure of control, but it didn't work. His eyesight sharpened with a will of its own, forcing him to confront the atrocity with obscene clarity. Blair's hands were ripping millimetre by tiny millimetre as they struggled to hold the weight of his unconscious body, but still the sentinel could do nothing.

"Simon," he called out, soft and hushed at first, until his voice found its lost volume. "SIMON!" This time a blood-curling sound ripped through the bedroom, spilling out the door and rumbling down the hall. "Help him! God, please, someone help him!"

Simon's body turned to ice. His conversation with Brown and Rafe fell dead and the box bearing pizza for the outcast grad student was dropped to the floor, its contents smeared into the linoleum by the trample of panicked feet. With guns drawn, three detectives charged across the living room, crowding into the small room under the stairs.

Like Ellison, Banks froze. But unlike the sentinel, he was not crippled by his senses and moved instantly to action. "Rafe, ambulance, NOW!" Simon's voice was strong and steady, refusing to let it reflect the gut-wrenching anguish that was tearing his insides apart. He moved past Jim, sparing no time to concern himself with the sentinel's condition. Lunging forward, he took control. "H, help me. Help me get him down."

A feeble moan hitched a ride on Blair's last breath, and carried with it the key that unlocked the sentinel's prison. "Simon, no! Don't touch his hands." Like a man set free of the chains that bound him, Jim propelled himself forward. "The frame. We need to lower the frame to the floor." The sentinel had faded and Ellison was now in complete control. "H, grab hold of the bottom and support his feet. Simon take hold of the other side and when I say, we lift together." With precise and perfectly synchronized movements, they worked as one to slide the frame in an upward motion until it was free of the hooks that mounted it to the wall. "Okay, gently ... gently does it," Jim ground out, as they took the full weight, of not only the wooden obscenity, but of Blair's unconscious body.

With the frame lowered to the floor and his body now supine, Blair's diaphragm expanded rapidly, and his lungs filled with air. Jim let out a breath of his own, but remained centred. Emotionally he needed to detach, because if he didn't, there was every chance that his senses would once again render him useless. A volatile mix of hate, anger and revenge was already brewing and if he didn't move to cap it, the resulting explosion would be fatal for both of them. With a non-emotional, almost cold expression providing an outer mask to his inner turmoil, Ellison detached and drew himself back to a role he'd played a lifetime ago. The sentinel and detective let completely go, and the medic sprang to life.

"Simon, throw me that shirt." A soiled, bloody loincloth hung loosely from Blair's hips, and while he wanted nothing more than to rip it from Blair's body, he methodically worked at the knots until they came free. He didn't need sentinel vision or senses to confirm that Blair had been raped. The blood that smeared Sandburg's thighs was evidence enough, and while covering him now with the dirty shirt served no more purpose in Blair's welfare than a bandaid on a bullet wound, at least one symbol of the horrific crime had been removed. With the shirt in place, Jim's fingers touched the pulse point of Blair's neck. "Somebody hurry up that ambulance!" he ordered.

"Jim, my god, look at his hands." Should we try and get them free?"

Ellison turned his attention to Blair's wounded hands, an injury that, by its very nature, had already given away the identity of the perpetrator. He shook his head, "No, we'll just do more damage." Moving down Blair's body, Jim's fingers drifted over a patchwork of bruises and contusions, feeling for any signs of internal damage. Moving swiftly, but meticulously, he made his way down to Sandburg's feet. Just like Blair's hands, one foot was attached to the wooden slat by a single nail. He examined the other foot that lay limply on the floorboards. From the bruising and torn skin across the top of Blair's foot, he figured that Blair must have lashed out at his attacker, using the only weapon available to him – his foot. Despite the horror of what was happening to him, the kid had obviously still had enough strength and willpower to put up a fight. The valiant fight had not only saved his left foot from the abuse that his right foot had suffered, but also very likely saved his life. From the bloody footprint that smeared the wall, Jim knew that Blair had been able to brace himself, and, in doing so, kept some of the pressure off his abused lungs and diaphragm. If both feet had been immobilised, Blair would most likely be dead, succumbing to suffocation as his diaphragm ceased to expand.

Jim's head shot up and he made his way back up Blair's body. "Chief, no. Not now." Capturing Blair's face within his hands, he straddled his knees on either side of Sandburg's chest and prayed like he'd never prayed before that Blair's attempts to pull himself back from the darkness would fail.

Jim's prayers went unanswered.

~oOo~


	3. Chapter 3

~oOo~

Blair came back to the conscious world the way he went out – fighting for his life. The very moment his mind and body registered the presence of a weight bearing down on him, he bucked upward, twisting and turning, trying to free his captured limbs.

"Blair, no!" Instantly changing position, Jim removed his hands from Blair's face and placed them with as much pressure as he dared over Blair's wrists, trying to restrain movement. "Chief, don't move," he pleaded.

"Get the fuck off of me you sick bastard!" Sandburg yelled. His voice was raspy and hoarse, a chilling testimony to his previous battle, and the wild anger that sparked from his eyes told Jim that the kid still had a lot more punch left in him.

As Blair buck upward, Jim had no choice but to apply more of his body weight against his torso. With the way Blair was fighting, he stood a very real chance of ripping himself free and possibly doing irreparable damage to his hands. "Simon ... Henri, take his wrists." As soon as his order was obeyed, Jim released his own hold and, with gentleness and compassion pushed aside, he roughly recaptured Blair's face and spoke harshly. "Sandburg, I swear to God that if you don't stop moving, I'll slap you straight into this side of next Monday." He gave a short, sharp tap to Blair's cheek. "You understand me, Chief?" he said, harshly.

Blair's eyes immediately stopped darting around the room and locked with Jim's.

"We on the same page, buddy?" Jim asked, his voice remaining steady and controlled.

Blair completely stilled his movements, his line of vision never leaving Jim's face, not daring to look around and face reality.

"Good," Jim said, gently this time, his thumb moving to wipe away a single tear that leaked from the corner of Blair's eye. His own resolve then gave way and he leaned down, brushing his lips against Blair's forehead, not giving a flying fuck about having an audience of other men. "You know I love you, don't you?" he whispered roughly. And he did; he loved Blair with his heart and with his soul, with every fibre of his being. He also knew that the only way for Blair to survive and come out of this as a complete and whole man, was for him to be able to hold on to that love.

Blair nodded and Jim's lips remained. "Well you just make sure you hold onto it, okay? Whatever happens, Chief, you just promise me that you'll hold on tight and not let it go."

As the world closed in around them, Jim's touch remained – through the intrusion of the paramedics, through the ambulance ride to the hospital, through the frantic rush into the ER with doctors' orders being barked all around. They both held on until Blair was wheeled down a corridor and whisked out of sight.

~oOo~

The stark, white glare of the florescent lights enhanced the albino-like qualities of Ellison's face; the small dots of blood that speckled his cheek were the only contrast to his ghostly pallor. Squeezing his hand open and shut, he was mesmerized by the red that stained his skin. Some dry, but some still wet and slick, gathered in the creases of his palms, tracing its way down to his wrist, like a trickle of rain against the window. From the moment Blair had been wheeled away, he'd once again lost his footing and become besieged within the confines of his own pain. Succumbing to the lure and the temptation of a quiet, peaceful world where he existed alone, Jim didn't hear the door open or feel the strong hand that grasped his shoulder. He'd shut down, not wanting to feel. Feeling hurt too much, and he wasn't ready to confront that pain. All he wanted was to remain in the safety of his current state – numb and in a void – but the hand on his shoulder and the voice that accompanied it was forcing him to make a choice. He could, with a bit more effort, push himself deeper until the voice and the hand were silenced by the walls of his world, but the voice was smarter than that. Simon was smarter than that.

"Blair," was all that Simon needed to say to send him hurtling out of the pit.

"Blair?" he repeated, hoarsely.

"He's still in surgery. We've had no word yet." Simon's hand squeezed his shoulder. "I had Brown bring you some clean clothes and the nurse said there's a shower in here that you can use." A towel and bar of soap were thrust into his arms. "I'm gonna go round you up some coffee and something to eat." Simon's touch was gone. "I won't be long."

~oOo~

Jim emerged from the bathroom, still pale and a little shaky, but slowly regaining his control. Simon rounded him up like a lost child and guided him toward the waiting room. "Here," he said, handing over a cup of coffee. "It tastes like crap, but at least it's hot."

Jim accepted the coffee, feeling the warmth penetrate his hands. "Have you heard anything yet?"

"No, but it's early days."

Jim cocked his head to the side and began to concentrate. Simon shook his knee roughly, snapping him out of it.

"Stop!" Banks ordered. "You're in no condition."

"I know," Jim replied softly, letting another of layer of guilt settle over him and remind him once again of his failures. Not only had he ignored what his sentinel instinct had told him, but he hadn't even been able to keep control of his senses.

He could live those failures down, somehow make amends for them. But there was one guilt that, no matter how long he lived, he'd never be able to absolve; he had failed to protect Blair and, with that lapse, he'd failed to protect his guide.

~oOo~

Justin O'Connor wearily removed the surgical cap from his head and threw it into the hamper on his way out the door. He made his way toward the waiting room, preparing himself for the forthcoming speech which, through years of practice, he had down pat. He couldn't even begin to guess as to how many wives, husbands, family members and friends he'd spoken to during his time as a surgeon. Sometimes he was the bearer of good news, sometimes the harbinger of doom – and sometimes, times like this, he stood teetering on middle ground.

"How's Blair?" Two men were on their feet and the question was blurted out before O'Connor even had a chance to get both feet through the door. Moving into the room, he gestured for them to sit down again, and pulled up a chair. "At this stage, he's holding his own. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I'd say his chances of making a good recovery are promising."

"And what does 'promising' mean?" Jim asked.

"It means we have to wait and see," O'Connor replied. "His hands were in a bad way when he was brought in, and we're doing everything we can to try and minimise infection. The nails that we removed were encrusted with rust, and this in itself is giving us a reason for concern."

"And the overall damage?" Simon asked. "You were able to repair it?"

"Fortunately the nail in his left hand only struck tissue, but the damage to his right hand is a different story. It's been torn badly from the centre of his palm right down to the junction between his middle and index fingers. He has two fractured metacarpals and has a significant amount of nerve damage. As I said before, infection is going to be a problem, and both hands, as well as his foot, are showing signs already, so he's receiving some pretty heavy-duty antibiotics at the moment to try and combat it."

"It will heal, though?" Simon asked. "His right hand will heal?"

"I'm optimistic that, given time and intensive physical therapy, he will regain use of his hand. Whether or not he'll obtain a full range of movement, it's too early to say."

Jim's face was expressionless. "What about the injuries from the rape? How bad were they?"

"There was some internal and external tearing, which we've stitched. We found traces of semen in his rectum and we've drawn blood for testing. His genitals are badly bruised and his left testicle was twisted. It's been manipulated back into place and I'm confident that the lack of blood supply won't do any permanent damage."

"I'll need a sample of the semen for our forensic department," Simon stated, without emotion.

"That's already been arranged, Captain."

Jim was once again on his feet. "I need to see him."

"Detective, he's still in recovery. Once we have him settled in his room, you can see him for five minutes." Doctor O'Connor drew himself to his feet. "What Blair needs now is time to rest and time to heal."

"No. What he needs, is me."

Before the doctor had a chance to protest, Simon moved into action. "Doctor, the person who did this to Blair is still out there. That being the case, I'm going to insist that one of my people be with him at all times. For his own protection, Blair will need to be under twenty-four-hour surveillance."

O'Connor reluctantly nodded. "I'll get one of the nurses to show your detective the way."

"Don't bother," Jim muttered, pulling the door open. "I've already found him."

~oOo~

A questioning look from several nurses had Ellison flashing his badge. "Witness protection," was all he said, moving closer to the bed. Blair was lying under a mound of blankets, one nurse checking lines and tubes, while the other was trying to coax him back to consciousness. Her voice was soft and gentle and Blair was beginning to respond. He answered her questions with short, garbled words, but one word rang loud and clear. _Jim_.

Without hesitation, Jim reached out. "Hey, Chief," he said, palming Blair's cold forehead. He forced a smile to his face. "Anyone told you lately that you look like road kill, Darwin?"

"... jus' you," Blair answered weakly, his eyes losing the struggle to stay open.

"Well that's what friends are for, kiddo," Jim replied, lightly. He shot a questioning look at the nurse, as Blair now seemed to be less responsive.

"He's doing all the right things," she assured him, tucking the blankets more securely around his body.

"Stay," Blair whispered.

Jim brushed his hand down Blair's cheek. "Wild horses, Chief."

Blair's eyes fluttered open. "... promise."

"Wild horses," Jim whispered, again.

~oOo~

The next fifteen hours were a steady routine of wakefulness, pain, drugs and sleep, and when Blair finally woke with more comprehension in the early hours of the morning, Jim was right by his side. "Road kill?" Blair murmured.

"'Fraid so, buddy boy." Jim's hand was back on Blair's brow. It was the only place he could seem to find that offered comfort, not pain. "How you feeling?"

"Sore," Blair closed his eyes briefly. "My hands?"

"They're going to be fine, Chief." He saw no point in going into any further detail. All Blair needed to know was that, for the moment, everything was going to be okay. Reality could wait until he was stronger.

"You know about ...? You saw?" To Jim's surprise, Blair didn't shy away. He looked him directly in the eye. "You know he raped me."

Jim held Blair's look; he had to. He couldn't and wouldn't deny Blair that. "I know."

"Who else?"

"Only Simon," Jim lied. "Blair ..."

"S'okay," Blair interrupted before Jim could say anymore. "I was unconscious when he did it. I don't remember a thing."

Jim simply nodded, not voicing the obvious. _If you were unconscious, kiddo, then how do you know you were raped?_ He hadn't left Blair's side since he'd woken up in recovery, and no one had told him about his injuries, so the answer was that Blair knew exactly what had happened, because he hadn't been unconscious. He'd been awake through every horrific detail.

Blue eyes remained locked with Jim's, pleading with him to believe what he'd just said. "We'll talk when you're feeling stronger," Jim finally replied.

"There's nothing to talk about," Blair answered, dully.

"Okay." For the moment, at least, whatever Blair wanted and needed, Blair would get.

"Number four," Blair muttered.

Jim's hand had now moved from Blair's forehead and his fingers were cording through his tangled hair. "Number four, what?"

"On the rap sheet. Number four on the list. That's who attacked me."

"You're sure?"

This time Blair's eyes broke contact. "It's a face I'll remember forever."

Jim had run out of words. He didn't know what else to say; he didn't know how to emotionally confront Blair's pain. "You gonna be okay for a second while I go call Simon?"

"Yeah," Blair answered, but the closer Jim got to the door, the more rapidly the 'yes' became a 'no'. The rate of Blair's breathing increased and Jim's own heart rate spiked, suddenly beating as fast as if he'd just run five miles. Blair's 'no' was his 'no', and he physically couldn't bring himself to leave. It was like an invisible force was holding him and drawing him back. For the first time since his senses had come online, Jim had a glimpse of exactly what his future held in store.

By the time he was back by the bed, Blair was in pain – serious pain. Jim pressed the buzzer to get the attention of the nursing staff, and then lowered the railing. "He needs something for the pain," he said the moment the door was swung open, "and I need someone to call my Captain and get him down here, now."

Morphine dripped slowly into Blair's vein, releasing him from the pain. With Simon on his way to the hospital, all Jim could do was sit and wait. His hand was snaked under the blanket and his palm splayed across the width of Blair's chest, testing a theory of his own. Their hearts were beating not only in time, but in perfect unison.

They were beating as if they belonged to one.

~oOo~

Just before dawn, O'Connor arrived with the nurse. He acknowledged Ellison with a nod before removing Blair's chart from the end of the bed. "Has he woken?"

"On and off," Jim replied. "He's had a couple of mouthfuls of water, and about an hour ago they gave him something else for the pain. He's been asleep since then."

"I expect he'll stay that way for the next few hours." The doctor cast a professional eye over Jim. "You had anything to eat or drink since yesterday?"

"I'm fine," Jim answered.

O'Connor spoke to the nurse in a quiet tone. "Once we finish up here, perhaps you could rustle Detective Ellison up some breakfast and a strong cup of coffee."

"Will do," she answered, continuing to check the various lines that ran in and out of Blair's body.

"And in the meantime, Detective, I'd appreciate it if you'd wait outside while I examine Blair."

"No," Jim answered, quite bluntly.

Doctor O'Connor was just as frank. "Detective, I'm about to examine his internal stitches and I'm quite certain, given the circumstances, that Blair would appreciate privacy while this is happening."

Jim found himself staring at a decision that was balanced on the toss of a coin. Heads up dictated that Blair should have his privacy and heads down meant that he would keep his promise – the promise he made to Blair to stay by his side and the promise he made, as a sentinel, to never again leave his guide unprotected.

Either way, the coin was loaded; no matter how it landed, both sides came up with only one thing in mind – Blair's welfare.

Reluctantly getting to his feet, Jim gently brushed Blair's arm. "I'll be right outside." Blair was still out, and couldn't have possibly comprehended what he'd said, but the words went a small way toward putting his mind at ease and convincing himself that he had made the right decision.

Waiting outside Blair's room was like waiting in a vacuum. The halls were beginning to fill with the buzz of harried people going about their duties, but still they were devoid of life and stripped of any real emotion. While he could clearly hear the conversation between the doctor and nurse as bandages were removed, wounds inspected and re-bandaged, he couldn't focus on the sound of Blair's heart, but he didn't need to. His heart seemed to be beating in time with Blair's and his heart was telling him that Blair was waking up.

Jim's hand hovered, barely touching the door handle as he debated whether or not he should enter the room. Blair's right to privacy won out, and he pulled back just as a voice behind him made him jump. A hand laid on his shoulder, grounding him in an instant. "Jim, what's going on?"

"Doctor's giving him the once over. I was asked to wait outside." Jim scrubbed his hand wearily across his face. "He identified Forsythe."

"I figured as much." Simon hooked Jim by the elbow. "Why don't we go and get some breakfast while the doc finishes up?"

Jim shook his head. "No. I can't. I made a promise."

Simon didn't relinquish his grasp. "Well at least come and sit down while I go rustle you up a cup of coffee." He led Jim over to the row of chairs on the other side of the hallway and pushed him down. "I'll be back in a minute, and then we'll talk."

Leaning forward, Jim rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands and let out a deep, bone-weary sigh. He was through talking, and through listening. All he wanted to do was to take Blair away, lay him down on a bed, cocoon him in safety and stay perfectly still until they were both strong enough to move.

But reality demanded a different game and, given the hand it had dealt them both, they'd have to play it out until the game was over and they could _both_ start anew.

~oOo~

As he trudged and stumbled along the path to waking, the only input that Blair registered was the sense of touch. The touch of warmth, left behind, was replaced by the fingering of cool air skimming the fragile surface of his skin.

And, the touch of hands – foreign hands. Hands that should not have been there, hands that did not belong to Jim.

His body reacted, purely on instinct, fighting against the hands that were touching him at his most vulnerable and invading his body without permission to do so. Without warning, he rolled onto his back and lashed out. Kicking hard, he struck the tray at the end of the bed, sending it clattering to the floor. Then, obeying the most basic and simplistic of his survival instincts, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped to the floor – only to be betrayed by the crippling agony that shot straight from his foot to the core of his groin. His knee gave out but, just as his injured hands were about to bear the brunt of his weight crashing to the floor, he was swept up, taken away and settled on a lap in the furthest corner of the room.

~oOo~

After spending years in the ER, it took a lot to surprise Justin O'Connor, but for a split moment, the events that had just unfolded in front of him had him momentarily rooted to the spot. The sound of the IV pole finally losing its balance and toppling to the floor brought him back to reality and back in control. "Get me four milligrams of Stadol, stat, and round up some orderlies, now!" he ordered.

Left alone with his patient and, somehow, with the detective, Doctor O'Connor took in the devastation around him. Urine had soaked sheets and puddled on the floor as the catheter, which had moments before been inserted into his patient, hung from the side of the bed. The IV stand had been dragged along the vinyl floor, before succumbing to gravity and toppling over but, surprisingly enough, remained attached to the line in Blair Sandburg's arm. And not surprisingly, Blair was still fighting. Although practically sitting on the detective's lap and wrapped in arms veining under the pressure of keeping him bound, Blair was resolute. "I'm signing myself out," he kept insisting. "I'm not staying here and there's no one in hell that can make me."

And now, just to give him another headache to add to the one he was already sporting, the police captain had turned up and stood gaping at the door like a fish left high and dry with the outward tide.

In a saving moment of sanity, the duty nurse reappeared, followed by two orderlies. She pushed the syringe into his hand. "Four milligrams of Stadol," she said, and before anyone had a chance to react or to protest, he inserted the needle into the IV line and press down, hard.

The floundering fish finally found his voice. "What the hell has happened in here?"

To save himself any more hassles, O'Connor dropped directly into, 'appease the relative and friends mode'. Keeping his voice calm, he answered the question. "Mr. Sandburg just became a little agitated. As soon as the medication takes effect, we'll get him settled back into bed."

His patient's head shot up in an instant. "What did you give me?" Blair demanded.

"Just something for the pain and something to help you sleep."

All it took was those few words, spoken too soon, to have Blair struggling again. He lifted his arm to his mouth in an effort to rip out the IV line, but to the detective's credit, he forced it back down. "No Chief, leave it in."

"No!" Blair answered angrily, and O'Connor immediately indicated to the orderlies to hold their ground. Although Blair was fighting to extricate himself not only from the IV line, but from the detective's lap, Ellison was winning the battle.

"Blair, you can't leave," he heard him say. "You're hands are infected and you're in pain. You need to be here."

"How the hell do you know what I need?" Blair spat back. "I asked you to stay, to make sure that no one ..." Blair's sentence was left unfinished and he hung his head in defeat. "You couldn't even do that," he whispered.

O'Connor expected the detective to back down, but instead he turned the tables. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you need me to stay and what did you need me to stop?"

Blair's head shot back up. "Go to hell, Jim!" he shouted coldly. "Go to fucking hell!"

But Jim didn't go anywhere, he just held on tighter. He'd played this game with the best of the best; he knew the rules and he knew the game plan. Anger, denial, deflation, defeat, hate, inconsolable rage and indescribable sorrow. Emotions that chopped and changed and zigzagged right to left like a drunken sailor at the wheel of a speed boat. And no one, not even the person in charge, knew what wave was coming next. Rationally, all he could do was speculate and draw upon his own experience for his source of knowledge, but in the past there was one factor he never had to contend with. He'd never had to contend with a sentinel fighting for his guide, and try as he might to push the sentinel down, it was scratching and clawing its way to the surface.

The very moment that Blair lost his fight against the drugs pulsing through his veins, was the moment the sentinel rallied to the front lines and took control.

The guide was down, and the sentinel was on the warpath.

~oOo~

With the bed stripped and remade, Justin O'Connor made his move. Kneeling down, his only objective was to get his patient back into bed and re-examined. Although Blair had succumbed to the sedative, having the detective on his side would make his job a lot easier. "I'd like to get Blair back into bed now, detective," he stated.

O'Connor was not prepared for the ice-cold eyes that turned his way. "Get out," the sentinel ordered. "Take your nurses and orderlies and get the hell out."

"I'm sorry, detective," O'Connor replied calmly. "I can't do that. Blair is my patient and his welfare is my responsibility; one way or another, I am going to render the care he needs."

Jim's voice was low and guttural. "You lay one fuckin' finger on my guide and I will not hesitate in making a hole in that wall with your head."

For Simon, the moment those words left Jim's mouth, the doctor's role had ended and his had begun. Something was wrong – seriously wrong. While it wasn't the first time Ellison had threatened to make a ventilation hole in a wall with a man's head, it was the first time he'd publicly referred to Blair as his guide. Putting his body between Ellison and the doctor, he crouched down on his haunches. "Jim, what the hell is wrong with you?" he hissed.

Ellison didn't answer; he just transferred his stare from the doctor to Simon.

"Don't give me that shit," Simon snapped. "I want some answers and I want them now."

Jim didn't relent. "Unless you want to end up like the rest of them, I'd get the hell out while you can, Simon."

The pure venom in Jim's voice took Simon aback. He had thought he'd seen every facet of Jim's personality, but this was new – a side he'd never seen before and was completely unprepared for. But he was convinced that whatever was going on was far from normal. It was sentinel-related, he was certain of that, but unfortunately, the only person who could help was lying unconscious in Jim's lap.

"Doc, give us a few minutes alone?" Simon finally asked. If Jim _was_ in sentinel mode, then he'd have to try and work with him on this level, and he didn't need an audience while he was doing it.

Seeing the immediate fruitlessness of the situation, Doctor O'Connor agreed. "I'll give you ten minutes. If you can't resolve this situation by then, I'm going to have to call security."

The sentinel's body went rigid as the threat to his guide's welfare grew. "You can call security if you want, doctor, but I give fair warning that I'll shoot anyone who comes through that door."

"Ellison, that's enough!" Simon ordered. "Get ahold of whatever is going on with you or I'll have you thrown into a holding cell before the hour's out." Simon's voice took on a threatening tone of its own. "And you know me well enough to know that's no idle threat." Pulling himself to his feet, Simon turned on the doctor. "I believe you said ten minutes." He was angry and frustrated at how the situation had managed to get so out of hand, and completely perplexed at how he was going to fix it.

With the room now emptied of hospital staff, Simon knelt down again. "Jim, how can I help?"

"You can help by getting out," Ellison replied, coldly.

Deciding not to react to anger with anger, Simon changed tack. "I'm not the enemy here, Jim. I care about the kid as well." Goose bumps now dotted Blair's arms and Simon used that as his first bargaining chip. "Jim, he's cold. At least let me help you get him back into bed and under the covers."

As the threat to his guide lessened, the sentinel began to loosen its grip. Taking hold of the opportunity while he could, Jim shook his head to try and clear his mind and to gain control over his thoughts and his actions. While he wasn't oblivious to what had just gone on, he was at a loss as to how to explain it. He fully accepted that the protective urge he felt toward Blair was strong, but the way it had transformed from 'strong' to 'completely out of control' in less than a heartbeat was unacceptable.

"Jim? We need to get him off the floor."

Simon's voice brought Ellison back to the here and now. "I know," Jim finally agreed but, although he was now willing to let Simon help, emotions still lingered. The only way around them was to set limitations. Simon could help, he just couldn't touch Blair – not yet any way. "I need a soft, warm cloth to clean him up, and something else for him to wear. Pants," he suddenly clarified. "Long pants."

"I can do that," Simon replied. "But first let me help you get him off the floor."

"I got him," Jim insisted. "You just help with the IV."

As Jim eased his way out from under Blair and manoeuvred him into a position so he could lift him off the floor, Simon righted the IV pole and followed Jim's path to the bed.

Muttering a small 'thanks', Jim heard Simon in the bathroom behind him and the sound of the faucet being turned on. Laying Blair on the bed, he turned him gently to the side and undid the ties on the back of his gown. Next, he disconnected the IV and slipped the gown down Blair's arms and carefully over his injured hands. Without hesitation, he examined Blair for any damage that might have been caused by the catheter and its violent exit from Blair's body.

"It's warm," Simon stated, handing over the cloth.

"Thanks," Jim said again, taking the washcloth and gently wiping Blair down.

"I'll go round up something for him to wear."

Jim nodded and kept on with his task, but as soon as the door clicked closed behind him, his shoulders slumped and his mask slipped. Blair's body was so broken – so battered and bruised and so very violated. "I don't know what to do, Chief," he whispered. "I don't know how to help."

_Yes you do,_ a voice deep inside told him. _You start with love and run with love, and you never, ever look back._

Jim's hand found its way back to Blair's chest. "I'll do the best I can," he whispered. "I just pray to God it's enough."

~oOo~

The only long pants Simon could lay his hands on were hospital scrubs; while not particularly warm by themselves, the mound of blankets that Jim had buried Blair under easily compensated.

"What now?" he asked. Their time was growing short and he was expecting O'Connor to burst back through the door at any moment.

"Now I let him sleep, and when he wakes up, I take him out of here."

"Jim, they're not going to let you do that, and you know it."

"I have Blair's power of attorney, Simon. Legally, they can't stop me."

"And morally?" Simon questioned. "In all good conscience, can you stand there and tell me that you're willing to risk Blair's life by taking him out of here? And then what, Jim? Where are you going to take him? Back to the loft and back to his room – a room that's still covered in his blood?"

Anger, mixed with a sense of profound hopelessness haunted Jim's voice. "What would you suggest then, Simon? You heard him – he doesn't want to stay and I can't 'in all good conscience' hold him captive here." A weight that had been bearing down from the very moment they'd found Blair, finally became too heavy for him to shoulder alone. "Tell me, what am I supposed to do?" he asked, slumping heavily into the chair beside the bed.

"Have some faith in your friends, for a start." Reaching over, Simon lightly squeezed Jim's shoulder. "Let me help."

"How? What are you going to be able to do what I can't?"

"What I am going to do is to sit down and calmly and rationally discuss the options with Blair's doctor."

"And you really think that'll achieve something?" Jim replied with a hint of sarcasm. "We both already know what O'Connor's response will be."

"Maybe," Simon conceded. "But we won't know until I try." He braced himself for what was coming next. "But, Jim, before I leave, I'm going to ask you to hand over your gun."

"You're kidding me! It was an idle threat, Simon, nothing more."

"Are you sure about that, Jim? Because after what I just witnessed, I'm not. I don't know what the hell got into you, but until you can explain it to me, I'm going to err on the side of caution and insist you hand over your weapon."

Erasing all trace of emotion from his face, Jim stood, removed his gun from its holster and firmly pressed the weapon into Simon's waiting hand. "You're naïve if you think I need a gun to kill a man, Sir," he said, coldly. "You have absolutely no idea of the things I've been asked to do ... the things I've done."

Simon stood his ground, returning with full force the icy glare that was now being thrown his way. "I don't doubt for one minute what you're capable of, Ellison." He slid the gun into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and turned to leave the room. "I just pray to God we don't find out – for Sandburg's sake."

~oOo~

"Well?" O'Connor was on top of Simon the moment he stepped through the door. "Do we have a solution or do I need to call security?"

Sighing heavily, Simon thought wistfully, for the briefest moment, that perhaps Jim's gun _could_ be put to better use. He raked his fingers over his short hair. "Look, Doc, is there somewhere we can talk? Somewhere that has a decent cup of coffee?"

O'Connor hesitated briefly before finally gesturing for Simon to head down the hall. "Staff lounge has coffee, but I can't promise you it's decent."

Following as O'Connor's curt footsteps tapped down the long, sterile hallway, Simon endeavoured to make sense of the situation. He honestly couldn't blame the doctor for his current train of thought. At this very moment Ellison was a loose cannon, but he was also the most strategic weapon that Blair had in his arsenal. If Sandburg didn't have Ellison to bolster him, how the hell was he going to cope with the trial that still lay ahead? While he didn't doubt, for one single moment, the strength of the kid's audacity, the fact remained that right now Sandburg's first line of defence was looking pretty thin on the ground. Simply put ... Blair needed Jim.

Perching himself on a hard, plastic chair and accepting an expected crappy cup of coffee, Simon cut straight to the chase. "Can you explain to me, in plain English, what would happen to Blair if Ellison were to take him out of here?"

Leaning back, O'Connor folded his arms across his chest and was just as succinct. "If his injuries are left untreated, then the very real fact is that he could be facing the possibility of amputation – or worse, he could lose his life." Studying Banks' reaction, O'Connor took a slight diversion from his already prepared speech. "Look, Captain, I can understand your detective's viewpoint, but you have to understand where I'm coming from. It's paramount that Blair receives medical attention for his physical wounds, and it's also important the he receives care for his psychological trauma. This is not a quick-fix situation. Blair is not going to heal overnight." Leaning forward, O'Connor rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, his extended fingers tapping against his lips in an unconscious effort to avoid confronting the situation that had been forced upon him. "And unfortunately, the actions of your detective have left the hospital without a lot of choices."

"Which means?" Simon asked cautiously.

"Which means that I had no other choice but to inform the hospital's legal department of the situation."

"And?" Simon asked.

"And they've informed me that if Blair is deemed mentally unfit to make a clear decision with regard to his wellbeing, then the hospital can and will force its hand and have him committed into its care."

The hackles on the back of Simon's neck rose to attention, and he fought to maintain his composure. "That's not a course of action I advise you to take, Doctor," he warned.

Although doubt at the decision had been made nipping at his conscience, O'Connor pushed it down and continued to toe the party line. "I'm sorry, but the wheels have already been set in motion. The hospital's psychologist has been scheduled to see Blair first thing in the morning."

Years on the force had given Simon a pretty good instinct when it came to reading people, and the person sitting across the other side of the table was definitely speed-reading through a few important chapters. "And what else are you conveniently neglecting to include in your story, doctor?" he asked.

"It's also been decided that, given the events of this afternoon, Detective Ellison's presence is more detrimental to Blair's wellbeing than it is beneficial. And that being the case, I've been asked to inform security and have him escorted from this hospital."

Simon surged to his feet. "That's a load of horse crap and you know it. It's been less than forty-eight hours since that boy nearly died, for Christ sakes. What he needs is the support of friends, not to be labelled as a loon by a half-assed, incompetent administration whose only answer is to bury him under a pile of hospital bureaucracy until the problem goes away."

Pulling himself wearily to his feet, Justin O'Connor's feelings were mixed. While remaining firm in his conviction about Blair's physical and physiological needs, he also knew that a part of what the police captain was saying was right. Blair did need the support of friends and, from what he'd observed to date, Ellison appeared to be the man to fill that role. Before turning away to leave, O'Connor offered the only olive branch that was available to him. "If you are able to persuade Detective Ellison to let me monitor Blair's condition without interference, then I can forestall – until morning – having him removed from the room. I'm sorry Captain, but it's the best I can do. The rest is out of my hands."

As O'Connor's footsteps echoed back down the long, sterile hall, Simon knew the doctor was right, on one level; Blair was in no condition to leave. But the hospital had also got it so profoundly wrong. The kid needed Jim; the logic was as simple and fundamental as that. "Mitchell," he blurted, finding his cell in his hand before the name even had a chance to fully leave his lips. Punching numbers, he waited impatiently for the phone to connect. "Rhonda, it's Simon. I need you to find me the number for Pete Mitchell. It should be in Ellison's address book. Yeah that's it, Doctor Peter Mitchell." Tucking the phone into the crook of his neck, he snagged a napkin from the counter by the sink and reached into his jacket for a pen. "Okay, shoot."

Disconnecting from the office, Simon punched in a new set of numbers. "Please be home," he prayed. "Please just be home."

~oOo~


	4. Chapter 4

~oOo~

Colonel Peter Mitchell watched with casual ease as the security guard posted outside the door of room 425 made a mad dash down the hallway. He'd driven through the night after receiving the disturbing phone call, breaking both state and county speed limits to arrive just as dawn broke the horizon. He'd been briefed by Jim's captain about the extent of Blair's injuries as well as the political storm brewing surrounding Blair's care – and Ellison's unwanted presence. Drawing on his many years of experience as a doctor, and calling upon his intimate knowledge of what lay ahead, he squared his shoulders and pushed through the door.

Startled by the intrusion, Simon's head shot up from where it rested on his chest. His eyes immediately sought out Ellison, only to find that the sentinel was exactly in the same position he'd been in during the long hours from dusk to dawn. Simon wasn't completely sure whether he was zoned or not, but whatever condition Jim was in, he figured, at the very least, Ellison was getting some much-needed rest.

Turning his attention back toward the door, Simon took a moment to study the intruder. Casually dressed in dark jeans and a loose-fitting Henley shirt, the middle-aged man's appearance didn't fit the common mould of a member of staff. Feeling a strange glimmer of hope, he pulled himself to his feet, unconsciously smoothing the creases in his jacket as he did so. "Please tell me you're Doctor Mitchell."

"That's one of the nicer things they call me," Pete answered, sizing up Simon briefly, before offering his hand. "You caught the bastard that did this?"

Simon shook his head. "No, not yet. We know who he is, but the 'where' is proving a little difficult to solve."

Removing the chart from the end of the bed, Pete silently scanned through the several pages of information. "How's he doing?" he asked, nodding toward Jim.

"Well given that less than twelve hours ago he threatened to shoot security, 'not so peachy' would be a fairly good summary." Simon's attention went back to Jim. If Ellison was aware of Mitchell's presence, he certainly wasn't showing it, and that in itself couldn't be a good sign. "How'd you manage to get in here?" he asked, moving closer to the bed and effectively closer to Blair.

"Diversionary tactics." Moving closer to the bed himself, Pete reached out and palmed Blair's forehead. "Hey, kiddo," he whispered, making no attempt to hide the affection in his voice.

The sound of Mitchell's voice was cathartic and Simon relaxed into it, feeling the tension drain from the muscles in his neck. "I'm sorry I had to involve you in all of this, but I didn't know what else to do. Sandburg's usually the only one who seems to be able to manage Ellison when he gets out of control and ..." He paused, with the sudden and profound realisation of just how ineffective he was when it came to dealing with Jim and his senses.

Pete just nodded. From what Jim had told him, Captain Banks was a capable man, but even capable men could become ineffective when their emotions ruled the moment. While he didn't deny that every fibre of his being wanted to enact brutal revenge to the son of a bitch who'd done this to Blair, his training and his experience served him well; he would not allow himself to be compromised by emotion. Blair was going to need his support, both professionally and personally and, knowing Jim as well as he did, when Ellison's anger finally enveloped, he was going to have to draw upon the rest of his resolve to combat that.

Turning his attention toward Jim, Pete crouched down on his haunches and jostled Ellison's knee. "Hey," he said.

"Hey." The reply was instantaneous, causing Simon to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Ellison apparently had been with him all along.

"How you doing, son?"

Jim shrugged his shoulders and ignored the question. "How'd you know?"

"Your captain called me."

A momentary glance in Simon's direction conveyed without words everything Ellison needed to say.

"Captain Banks, you think you might be able to scrounge us up a couple of cups of coffee?"

Simon held eye contact with Jim. "Stuff they have around here is pretty crappy."

"I've drunk crappy before."

Without even being aware of his actions, Simon's fingers skated up the length of Blair's arm. Sandburg's skin was cold, his body, so still. "Jim, you gonna be okay?"

"He'll be fine," Pete replied, answering the question on Ellison's behalf; allowing Jim just a few more minutes of reprieve. "I'll keep a good eye on him and I'll even promise you that I won't let him shoot anyone."

"I'm not worried about that." Simon muttered. "I confiscated his gun," With his gut telling him that Ellison was in good hands, Simon gave Blair's shoulder one final pat. "Keep a good eye on both of them," he said quietly, before moving toward the door and pulling it open. Peering out into the hallway and finding it completely devoid of security, he looked back toward Mitchell. "Must'a been a good diversion."

"I never do anything by halves, Captain."

"I'll hold you to that," Simon replied, leaving with the solemn hope that Mitchell would be able to achieve what he was unable to do.

"So," Pete began as soon as the door clicked closed. "You wanna fill me in as to why you were going to kill hospital personnel?"

"I wasn't going to kill anyone. Just maim a little."

Removing his hand from Jim's knee, Pete straightened his stance. "Jim, we don't have a lot of time before the idiots guarding the door figure out they've been conned. I need you to level with me and tell me what's going on with you."

Jim's eyes finally met Pete's intense gaze. "I'm just keeping my promise."

"Your promise to do what?"

"My promise to keep him safe – and my promise not to let anyone touch him."

"And this promise, was it made by you?"

Ellison was immediately on the defensive. His eyes flashed with anger and the chair scraped against the linoleum floor, toppling over under the force of momentum. "I'm not fucking Cybill," he said, now on his feet and pacing.

Pete stood firm. "Jim, who made the promise?" he asked again.

"Me," Ellison yelled, spinning around and facing Mitchell head on. He lifted his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, unable to hold his position against the steel blue eyes that so easily penetrated his soul and discerned his deepest secrets. " ... at least, a part of me did."

"And the other part?"

"... the sentinel." Jim's shoulders slumped. "And if you're gonna ask me how it happened, don't, because I have no idea. One minute I was in control and then the next – the next I was completely overwhelmed by this urge ... this feeling that told me that Blair belonged to me. That he was mine."

"How exactly do you mean 'yours'?"

Refusing now to meet Pete's eyes at all, Jim wandered over to the window and stared down at the bleak streetscape below. How was he going to answer a question that didn't have an answer? All he knew was that, in the past few hours, the connection he had with Blair had leapfrogged from the domain of friendship and entered into the unthinkable realm of personal ownership.

A light touch to his shoulder, a strong arm encircling his chest and pulling him back against the touch of a solid muscle reminded Jim that this was Pete, and that he had nothing to hide. The man knew each and every one of his demons and, despite the horrific character of some, Pete had never backed down and never walked away.

"What's wrong with me?" Jim whispered.

"Nothing." Completing the circle, Pete's free arm came to settle around Jim's chest, keeping him bound. "How much has Blair told you, Jim?"

"About what?"

"About the research I gave him. About your connection and the impact it could have on both your lives."

"Not much," Jim answered. "But then, I don't really ask."

"Why?"

"Because for once in my life, I'm pinning my hopes on fate."

Pete pulled Jim even closer. While Ellison may have been pinning his hopes on fate, he had a feeling that their destinies had already been written and printed out in black and white. "This is not going to be easy, son."

"I know."

"And you know that for Blair to get the help he needs, you're going to have to break part of your promise."

"No." Jim closed his eyes briefly, gathering his thoughts. "I promised him that no one would touch him and I intend to keep that promise."

"How, Jim? How is the boy going to have any chance of getting better if you won't allow people near him?"

"Because you're not people." Breaking the circle, Jim pulled away and turned around. "Help me, Pete," he said. "Help us."

Pete's hands were back, grasping both sides of Jim's neck and holding him tight. He was already prepared to go to any lengths for them both and had no hesitation at jumping into the fray, but a part of him couldn't help wondering if Jim's demons would allow him to do the same. "And you?" he asked. "Are you up for it, son?"

"I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do. You always have a choice."

Jim's voice was heavy, weighed down with memories that, to this day, still had the power to flatten him where he stood. "You never gave me one."

"Yes I did. Your choice was to live."

A brief flicker of sarcasm appeared on Ellison's face. "That's funny, because I always thought the point of choice was to have two options?"

"You did." Pete answered. "Your other choice was to get your life back."

The touch of Pete's hand was strong against the side of Jim's neck and he embraced it for all it was worth. "The same choices we give him, then."

"The very same." With a last, decisive squeeze, Pete released his hold. "I need to go make a few phone calls. You gonna be okay?"

"Guess I don't have a choice, do I?"

Pete smiled warmly. "No."

As Pete moved away toward the door, Jim edged closer to the bed. "Tell me I'm not crazy, Chief." He trailed his finger down the side of Blair's unshaven cheek, gently tracing the outline of his jaw. "Please tell me you can feel it too?"

Blair remained still and, despite the injuries that battered his body, he seemed at peace with the world. Taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, the sentinel laid his hand over his guide's heart, knowing full well that Blair's peace wouldn't last.

~oOo~

It didn't take long for Mitchell to wrap up all the loose ends of his plan. Anticipating the minefield that lay ahead, he'd done most of the groundwork in the car on the way to the hospital. With a final dot of his 'i's and a cross of his 't's within the next hour, the hospital administration would have no other choice but to turn Blair's care over solely to him.

Re-entering room 425 with just as much ease as he had thirty minutes earlier, he was once again met by Simon's watchful presence. "Captain, you're a life-saver," he said, spotting the coffee on the table.

"You can call me Simon," Banks responded. "And now that we're on a first name basis, I wouldn't be averse to knowing exactly what you did to security."

Pete caught Jim's eye and gave him a quick wink. "Nothing much. I just dazzled 'em with the glitter before dumping shit all over them."

"Which translates to?" Simon questioned.

"I 'borrowed' a garbage truck, drove it up to the front doors and dumped its entire load on the front steps."

"Is that it?" Jim asked. Having Pete there had not only given him the chance to come to terms with his emotions, but it had bolstered his own sense of capability and strength – and he'd needed to hold on to that strength if he was going to help carry Blair back across the line.

Instantly picking up on the change in Jim's demeanour, Pete picked up the ball and ran with it. "Hey, I was in a hurry and I thought it was very inventive, for a spur of the moment thing."

"Um, excuse me, gentlemen," Simon interjected, also noticing the change in Jim's frame of mind since Mitchell had arrived. "There is a police officer in the room." He glanced over at Ellison. "Two, actually," he clarified. "And against my better judgment, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

Then suddenly, one man moved, spurred on by intuition, the other, by the sound coming from the heart monitor. Before Blair even had the chance to crack open his eyes, a hand came to rest upon his brow, while the other settled on his shoulder. "... noise," Blair muttered, concentrating with everything he had just to speak.

"Sorry, Chief. We didn't mean to wake you." Jim's hand smoothed over Blair's brow with a soft, slow rhythm. "But I did find someone loitering in the hallway who you might like to see."

As Pete moved into Blair's line of vision, Sandburg struggled to focus. "Pete?" he finally drew out.

"As I live and breathe, kiddo."

Blair swallowed hard, still fighting confusion. "Why?"

"Because I heard through the grapevine that my two favourite delinquents were causing a bit of a ruckus, so I decided I'd better come on down and sort the both of you out."

Blair's eyes lost the battle to remain open, but his voice found its strength. "Good, 'cause now you can tell Jim that I'm not staying here." He lifted his head from the pillow, only to have it forced back down by a wave of pain that assaulted his whole body. Although he was down, he was unwilling to admit defeat. "I mean it. I'm not staying."

Pete's fingers traced along the length of Blair's carotid artery, stopping at his pulse point. "Guys, you wanna give me a few minutes alone with Blair?" He glanced over at Jim, and spoke again before Ellison had the chance to protest. "Trust me, son."

Reluctantly Jim nodded. He removed his hand from Blair's forehead. "I'll be right outside the door, Chief."

Simon followed wordlessly behind, keeping his silence on a curiosity that had been piqued by Jim's uncharacteristic compliance with Mitchell's request. _How the hell did he manage that?_

The moment they were alone, Pete lowered the bed rail and took a seat on the side of the mattress. "Kiddo, I'm going to make you a promise that I'll to do everything possible to get you out of here as soon as I can, but to keep that promise, I'm going to need one from you in return."

"What?" Blair drew out in pain. His hands and foot were killing him and, while it was impossible to ignore the dull ache that radiated from his tailbone to inner thigh, he tried not to think about the reason for it – or dwell on the fact that Pete was another name to be added to his ever growing list of humiliation.

Pete brushed Blair's forehead with his hand, not only to give comfort, but to judge Blair's reaction and acceptance to his touch. Reassured when Blair didn't flinch or pull away, he began. "What I need from you, Blair, is your permission to let me do my job and for me to do... "

"Okay," Blair interrupted. "Do your job and help sign me out."

Pete moved his hand to the side of Blair's face, his thumb rubbing small, firm circles against Blair's temple. "It's not going to be as easy as that, kiddo. Your body has been put through a lot of stress and needs to be given a chance to heal. Unfortunately, part of that healing process means that you're going to have to let people touch you and let people examine you."

"No." Blair's voice was resolute and determined and it was exactly the reaction Pete was expecting.

"Okay," he agreed softly. "If not people, how about me?" Pete's touch became feather light. "Blair, I'm not going to explain to you how intrusive these examinations will be, because I'm sure you already know, but son, for me to have any chance of getting you well enough to leave this place within the next week, it's something that needs to be done."

Blair ignored the bulk of Pete's speech. "Two days," he stated. "I'm not staying here a week. Two days and I'll agree."

Knowing that two days would be pushing it, Pete made a counter offer. "Four days. Four days and as long as there are no setbacks, we'll leave."

Blair drew in a ragged, pain-filled breath. "Three days. Three days or I'll sign myself out."

"Okay," Pete agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "Three days." Three days was still going to be tight going, but he was confident that, by that time, the IV antibiotics would have knocked the severity out of Blair's infection. And while the short time frame could complicate the plans he'd already put in place, with Jim's help and Blair's determination, he'd just have to hold on to the hope that everything would fall into place.

Agitated voices on the other side of the door brought their conversation to an end. Easing himself off the mattress, Pete clicked the bed railing back into place. "I'll be back in a minute, son."

Although the voices were muffled and his own thoughts becoming jumbled, Blair still had the presence of mind to realise that Jim was on the other side of that door. Knowing Jim as well as he did meant that whatever was going on, the sentinel would most likely be in the thick of it. "Jim," he whispered. The whisper was all it took before the door flung open, slammed shut and Ellison was back by his side.

Leaving Blair in the best possible hands, Pete headed for the door and for the fight he knew was waiting on the other side.

~oOo~

"Captain, if you don't move aside and let me enter, I will have no other choice but to have you forcibly removed by security." A pock-faced, little man rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet, the authority that had been bestowed on him by the Chief of Staff further inflating an already overzealous quest for power. Rolling forward again, this time right to the tips of his toes, the little man bounced slightly. "And I'm quite certain that you wouldn't want a stain like that to tarnish your record."

"Personally, I really don't think he'd give a shit." Pete moved to stand behind Simon, closing the door firmly behind him. "Am I right about that, Captain?"

Simon widened his stance and crossed his arms across his chest, an insincere smile gracing his face. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of not giving half a fuck."

"That too," Pete replied, smacking Simon heartily on the back. "Now who are you?" he asked the little man standing in front of them.

Thrown off-balance by Pete's unexpected appearance, the little man pushed his glasses back up the length of his nose. "Excuse me?" he said.

"It's a simple question that requires a simple answer," Pete replied. "First name and last will suffice at this stage."

"I happen to be Doctor Jefferies, Head of Psychiatrics at this hospital, but I fail to see..."

"Oh," Pete said, dismissing him immediately, with a wave of his hand. "The soft science."

"Excuse me!" the little man spluttered. "Just exactly who do you think you are?"

"I don't think I'm anybody, doctor. I know who I am," Pete answered with a disinterested air. He turned his attention away from the short, stumpy figure and zeroed in on the younger man standing beside the psychiatrist. "And you are?" he questioned.

While concerned by the obvious lack of security employed by the hospital, O'Connor didn't have a lot of time or respect for the Head of Psychiatrics and was enjoying seeing the pompous little man brought down a peg or two. "I'm Doctor O'Connor, Mr. Sandburg's surgeon," he finally answered.

Motioning for the security guard he had brought with him to move closer, Jefferies attempted once again to assert his authority and regain control. "I will ask you one more time," he said, attempting without success to lower the tone of his high-pitched voice. "Who are you and why were you in the patient's room?"

Pete sighed openly and turned on the psychiatrist with obvious distain. "My name is Colonel Peter Mitchell. Also know as Doctor Peter Mitchell. You may address me as 'sir'."

Jefferies rolled one more time from the balls of his feet to the tips of his toes with such an inspiring momentum that, for a moment, he actually stood a good few inches taller. At the very crescendo of his upward motion, the little man even managed to control his voice and muster a tone that had Pete quite impressed by the sheer effort of the act. "I will do no such thing." He swivelled on his toes, confronting the security guard. "Please escort this gentleman from the hospital grounds, immediately."

The guard took a step forward, halting momentarily at Mitchell's warning of, "I wouldn't advise that, son." Cautiously sizing up the middle-aged man and judging him to be of minimal threat, the security guard continued moving forward. "Sir, would you please come with me."

"No," Mitchell said, the look in his eyes giving warning to his intention not to be moved.

With the realisation that his initial judgment may have been imprudent, the guard placed his hand on his weapon and flicked off the leather strap that kept it securely fastened in the holster resting against his hip. "Sir, the hospital does not want any trouble, but if you don't leave peaceably, I won't hesitate to use force to have you removed."

Pete flashed a smile and then, in a quicksilver move that had Simon gapping like a teenager after his first tongue kiss, the guard was lying flat on his back with Pete's foot on the centre of his chest and his weapon in Mitchell's hand.

Disengaging the clip, Pete tossed the gun to Simon, who, still slightly dumbfounded, caught it automatically. "Gentlemen, Blair Sandburg is now under the protection of the United States Military, and from this point in time will be my sole responsibility. I am not at liberty to go into details, other than to say that I have been given full medical jurisdiction over the patient. I will require your cooperation, which will include the full use of your staff and your facilities – without question." Pete focused his attention on the tubby little doctor who reminded him very much of the puffer fish he used to squash during his summer holidays as a kid. "I don't really care for the look of you," he stated flatly. "You will have no contact with my patient." He then levelled his gaze at Blair's surgeon. "From what I've been able to ascertain so far, your care and concern for my patient up until this point has been in his best interest. I will require your presence at oh-eight-hundred hours for a full briefing." Lifting his foot from the guard's chest, Pete offered a hand to pull him up. "Your Chief of Staff should have been fully informed by now, so any details you may require, I suggest you annoy him." When nobody moved, including the guard, Pete raised his voice another notch. "You have your orders, gentlemen. Now, move out!" With another quick wink in Simon's direction, Pete disappeared back through the door, having complete confidence that Banks would tidy up any remaining loose ends.

~oOo~

"So, anyone left standing out there?"

"Of course. I'm Colonel Calm, remember? Not Captain Chaos." Pete moved further into the room. Blair had been moved down the bed, turned onto his side and his head placed on a pillow nestled in Jim's lap. His eyes, while still open, were glassy and unfocussed. "Did you give him a dose of morphine?" The self administering pump that had hung on the IV pole for easy access by the nursing staff now lay across the top of the bed.

"He was in pain." Jim's touch was light, his fingers brushing Blair's brow in an attempt to get Sandburg to close his eyes and give in to sleep. "How on earth did you swing this, Pete?"

"You remember John Pointen?"

"You mean Pugsly Pointen?"

"That would be General Pugsly to you, my boy."

"You've got to be kidding me – John, a General!"

"Remember that little speech I used to give you, Jim? The one about contacts and not burning bridges?"

"You mean one of the lectures you used to give me," Ellison replied.

"Well, maybe you should have taken notes, because those bridges come in mighty handy occasionally."

"What I'd like to know is how you managed to get Blair military protection?" With the head of psychiatrics disappearing in a billow of angry smoke, and the hallway outside Blair's room clear, Simon re-entered the room.

Pete flashed a smile. "Well, technically, I didn't. But by the time the hospital lawyers sift through all the red tape, we'll be well and truly out of here."

"Baffle them with bullshit, huh?" Simon questioned.

"Absolutely! All you have to do is throw a couple of military heavyweights into the ring and you have your average civilian doing a belly flop every time."

Simon nodded, knowing with mixed feelings that his job here was done. "Jim, since you and Blair are obviously in good hands, I'm going to head on back to the station. I'll drop by later this evening and check in on the kid."

"Simon ... thank you," Jim replied, sincerely.

"Anytime, Ellison, anytime. Oh, I nearly forgot." He pulled Jim's gun from his suit pocket and placed it in the side table. "I think I can trust you with this again. Pete," he said. "It's been a memorable experience. When all this is over, I have a bottle of fifteen-year-old scotch and a shit-load of questions I wouldn't mind sharing with you."

"It would be my pleasure, Captain," Pete responded. "And thank you for looking out for my boys."

~oOo~

Blair had adhered to every condition Pete had set. He had let himself be tended to without fuss, barely uttering a word the whole time, but it was this quietness and compliance that had Jim concerned. A silent Blair was never a good thing, and a Blair that followed the rules was a course set straight for disaster.

"Hey, kiddo, brought you a present." Pushing through the door, Pete placed the bag he was carrying on the side table. He rummaged through it, pulling out a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. "Figured you might like a shower and the chance to get out of that hospital garb."

Blair's eyes lit up for a brief moment before the reality and dependence of the act hit home. He shrugged his shoulders, "I'm good," he said.

This time Jim spoke up. He tossed the morning paper aside and pulled himself out of the chair. "Chief, a shower would probably do you the world of good." He ruffled Blair's grimy hair. "You're starting to get a little on the ..."

"What, dirty?" Blair snapped. "Too much for your delicate senses to cope with?"

It was sudden and unexpected, and an outburst that left Jim with mixed feelings. Since Pete had arrived, Blair had been doing a pretty damn convincing impression of a Stepford Wife. Now, while it was a relief to finally see him expressing some kind emotion, anger wasn't an emotion _he_ was quite ready to deal with. He was nowhere near the stage of coming to terms with a rage that had been growing steadily since Blair's attack. Unfortunately, if there was one thing he'd learned about himself over the years, it was that anger formed the basis for all the wrong decisions he'd made in his life. And when it came to Blair, right now, he couldn't afford to let anger be his guide. "Chief, I'm sorry," he began, but got no further than that. Pete was reading him like an open book.

"Blair, we're leaving tomorrow and before then you're going to need to have a shower." Without waiting for permission, Pete pulled the blanket away. "I'm sorry, kiddo, but there's no room for negotiation here."

The Stepford Wife was back and Blair didn't utter a word of protest as the IV was disconnected and he was helped from the bed to the wheelchair. Not a peep was heard as he was wheeled into the shower stall and waterproof coverings were placed over his bandages. And not a word of protest was uttered as the ties on the back of his hospital gown were undone; but as the gown slipped down past his shoulders and bunched in his lap, Blair reacted, not with words, but with silent action. His eyes, bluer and deeper than Ellison could ever remember seeing before, became Jim's window to Blair's soul. Everything was laid out bare – Blair's fear, his humiliation, his anger, his hurt and distrust, and his need. And it was this need, gapping like a raw, seeping wound that had Ellison's reality stealing home plate; there was no other substitute. Pete could doctor and mend and give his support until the end of time, but that's not what Blair needed. Not what his eyes and not what his heart were pleading for. Jim couldn't look away and there would be no sidestepping. "Yes," he said in a voice rough and barely controlled. "God, yes." And in that very instant, Jim let go and freed himself of the anger, the self-doubt and the self-recrimination that was holding back his ability to give Blair the very thing he needed to get through this. Blair needed his love and every single element that encapsulated that love was now ready to be given without question and without doubt. Whatever it took, he would give it openly, without borders and without constraint.

_You start with love and run with love, and you never, ever look back._ For the first time in his life, Jim was in complete agreement with his inner voice. "I can do that," he said, silently. "I _can_ do that."

~oOo~

"_Jim, you might wanna strip down to your boxers. Chances are, you're gonna get wet."_ Pete was there, standing barefoot behind the chair Blair was sitting on. But, while the sedate tones of Mitchell's voice and the warm touch of his hands on his skin grounded that reality, for all intents and purposes, Pete might have been a million miles away; there was only one person that could give Blair what he needed. Only one person he trusted enough, one person he knew to be strong enough to be the keeper of his innermost fears and lock them far away from his thoughts and his memories until he had the strength to face them on his own.

That same man was now on his knees, kneeling before him and, while Jim may have been stripped bare, there was not an ounce of vulnerability in his nakedness. The look in Jim's eyes – on his face – told Blair that he could let go. Even though in his heart he still knew he had a long way to fall, he also knew he'd never hit rock bottom, because the man in front of him wouldn't allow that to happen. Jim would walk by his side, shoulder to shoulder, until he had the strength to walk alone.

So he sat on the hard plastic chair, ignoring all but the hands that held him tight. As the water flowed over his head and trickled down his back, the grip on his shoulders was all he could feel. Fingers, nimble and strong trailed across his skin, intruding upon every inch of his body, but all he could feel was the hands that guided him and settled him against a core of energy so powerful and alive that it soaked up his pain and washed away his humiliation.

And then, like a sign that his bubble was about to burst, the faucet shut off and his core of pure energy shifted, stealing the warmth from his body like an arctic wind plundering across a barren tundra. Hands returned, methodical and businesslike, removing the droplets of water which clung to his skin and reminded him what it was like to be warm. As he was encouraged to stand, to balance on one foot, as a towel trailed down his back, across his buttock and then to his groin – no permission asked and none granted – and in that moment he realised that Jim's strength alone would not be enough. "Need something for the pain," he whispered, so soft that he was not even sure the words had left his lips. Then like a light shining toward the promised lands, his words were answered and the pain his heart ebbed slowly away.

Jim would take care of him, and morphine would help erase the man he had become.

~oOo~

"Hey." Simon gave a curt nod in Pete's direction before turning his attention toward Jim. "We need to talk." His eyes raked across Blair's body. "He asleep?"

"Out like a light," Jim replied, somewhat ruefully. The morphine, injected into Blair's IV only hours before had the temptation of a double-edged sword. It was obvious that Blair had been in pain, but a more pressing question was: to what extent was Blair using the drug to cover up his emotional stress? Pulling away from his thoughts, Jim gave his attention back to Simon. "What's up?"

"We found Forsythe."

Jim shot to his feet.

"He's dead, Jim," Simon put forward, cutting off Ellison at the pass.

"Dead? How?"

"Throat was cut – he bled to death."

Pete was now on his feet and moved to stand next to Jim. "A blood sacrifice?"

"You could say that, but I'm more inclined to call it a cowardly act of suicide."

"What else?" The expression on Simon's face told Jim that there was still more of the tale to tell.

"His father's body was also found, along with some pretty detailed and horrific evidence of the abuse that Forsythe had suffered at his hands." Simon took a deep breath. "I know you don't want to hear this and you probably don't care, but what we found goes a long in way in explaining why Andrew Forsythe became the man that he did."

This time Simon read Ellison's expression, to a tee. "You're right, Simon, I don't care.

~oOo~

The third day of his confinement couldn't come quickly enough for Blair. His physical pain was manageable, his emotional pain unstable – balanced precariously on his ability of persuasion. Three days were up and a promise made on the first day of Pete's arrival was being honoured. He wasn't sure of the plan and, in all honesty, he didn't care. All he knew was that they weren't returning to the loft and he assumed that Pete's cabin would be their destination. Whatever the details, it didn't matter. Jim was in control and would take care of everything.

Anything else would be taken care of by the prescription bottle in Pete's bag.

"Okay Junior, you just about ready to blow this dump?" Jim fastened the last button on Blair's shirt.

"Where's Pete?"

"He's just taking care of the paperwork. He'll be back soon."

Jim positioned the wheelchair beside the bed. "Your vehicle to freedom, Chief."

"Jim, I need another shot before we leave."

Jim took a seat on the bed beside Blair, not quite sure how to tackle the subject of Blair's out-of-character dependence on pain relief. "You in pain?" he finally asked.

Blair's shoulders slumped, his body language revealing a truth not conveyed by his words. "Yeah, I am."

"Do you think maybe you should try and wait a bit longer? Save it for when we're on the road and things are really hurting?"

"Things are hurting now, so I can't see it makes any difference if I have it now or later."

But the look on Blair's face told Jim that it did make a difference. Blair was hiding and drugs were the perfect accomplice. Stalling, he gave Blair's knee a quick pat. "Pete'll be back soon and we'll see what he has to say." Drawing himself to his feet, he lightly squeezed Blair's shoulder. "Come on. I'll help you into this contraption."

Blair sighed reluctantly, but obeyed. "I need to use the bathroom before we leave."

Kicking off the brake, Jim wheeled the chair toward the bathroom, using the frame to push open the door. He placed his hand under Blair's elbow helping to hold Blair steady until Sandburg found his own balance. "I'll be right outside the door, Chief. Yell when you're done."

"You guys all set?" Pete pushed through the door, taking Jim's attention away from Blair.

"Guess so," Jim shrugged. "Blair's just using the bathroom."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what else is on your mind?"

"I don't know ... I guess I'm just..."

" ... worried about Blair?"

"Worried that he seems to be relying a little too much on the morphine and worried that he's getting just a little too used to it."

"He's not becoming addicted, Jim, if that's what you're getting at."

"No, it's not that, but I am concerned that he seems to be using it to hide behind. Just now he asked for another shot, and while I have no doubt that he's still feeling his injuries, this is Blair we're talking about, Pete, and I know from experience that he's more than capable of being able to handle this level of pain by himself."

"Jim, give him some time, okay? Tomorrow, once he's settled, I'll start to lower the dose, but today's going to be rough going. We have a long trip ahead of us."

"Are you ever planning on telling me where we're headed?"

"The beach house."

"The beach house, as in Maloney's beach house ... as in Hawaii?"

"The very same."

"You can't be serious?"

Pete's eyes were warm, but still managed to hold that decisive look Jim had become so very used to relying on. "I am serious, actually, and it's not Maloney's place anymore. The old goat put it up for sale a few years back and I thought I'd snatch me up a beach house." Pete didn't need to be a mind reader, or even good at guessing, to know what was going through Jim's head. "Jim, it's the best place for him to recover. You'd have to agree, wouldn't you?"

Jim turned away, trying to focus his attention once again on Blair. "I guess," he mumbled.

"And what about you, son?" Pete pressed. "How do you think you'll cope?"

"I'm not the issue here, am I? Blair is, and I'll cope just fine."

"Good, because your captain will be here in about five minutes to drive us to the airport. He's packed bags for the both of you."

The sound of Blair's heart entwined with the pace of his own and wiped clean Jim's thoughts, as well as his reservations about returning to the beach house. "Chief, you okay in there?" The silence on the other side of the door sealed his decision and granted him the only permission he needed to push open the door. "Blair? You okay?"

Blair was back in the chair and, to an outsider, to a layman not versed in the intricate and complex traits that formed the cornerstones of Sandburg's personality, Blair was fine. But Jim was versed and a master student on the subject of Blair Sandburg; he was not okay.

"I've changed my mind. I'm going to stay." Blair's hair hung loosely, covering his face. "I'm not leaving."

"I already kinda figured that out, Darwin." Jim crouched down to Blair's eye level, giving him access to what he needed to see, to what Blair wanted to keep hidden. "But I also figured that this is us ... and it makes no difference."

"Yeah, well it does to me."

"You feel like filling me in on why, exactly?"

Blair began to lift his head, before he realised that he wasn't up to facing the look in Jim's eyes. "Because," he simply said.

"Because why?"

"Because in here I'm just one in a thousand who have passed through that door – just another forgettable face whose memory will be erased when the next person, who needs to be spoon fed and have his ass wiped clean rolls in and takes my place." Blair held up his crippled hands, his mounting anger and frustration combining, giving him a moment of strength to face Jim head on. "How long's it gonna be, Jim? Weeks, months, longer?" He dropped his hands back down to his lap. "Or should I measure it by times – the number of times you'll have to care for me in ways that no friend should have to care for another?"

"It seems to me you've got a pretty skewed idea of friendship, as well as very short memory here, Chief." Gripping the side of the chair, Jim pulled it forward until Blair's knees touched his chest. "Sandburg, I've been picking up your crap for the past three years now and I can assure you that wiping your ass will be no more disgusting than dealing with your smelly shoes, pulling your hair from the shower drain, or cleaning the muck you call food outta my tupperware containers. Believe me, Chief, I've had plenty of training and when it comes to toxic wastelands, you're already on top of my list."

"Jim, don't ... please man, just don't."

Jim hooked Blair under the chin, forcing him to look at him. "Chief, I'm not going to pretend that it'll be easy or that it won't be as embarrassing as hell, but if there's one thing I know about you and one thing I know about me, it's that whatever is going on between us, it's a damn sight stronger than those feelings." With his eyes never leaving Blair's face, Jim trailed his fingers down Blair's neck and settled his hand over the centre of Blair's chest. With his other, he lifted Blair's hand from his lap, guiding it toward his own chest, stopping at the touch of Blair's fingertips against the thin cotton fibre of his shirt. "I want to know everything you know and I want to start being a part of whatever it is that we're meant to be." He pressed Blair's fingers carefully against his chest, letting Blair feel the strum of his heart beat. "Teach me, Blair," he whispered. "Teach me everything I need to know to make this work."

A guide's eyes locked with a sentinel's. "Are you sure?" Blair's voice was hesitant and uncertain. "Because if we start, I don't think there's a way to turn back."

"Turning back is not an option, Chief." Jim pressed Blair's fingers even more firmly to his chest, feeling the warmth penetrate his shirt and ignite his skin. "And it never has been."

Jim's hand let go, drifting back up to the side of Blair's face. "Let's do this."

Blair simply nodded because, as far as options went, he suspected that they were already in too deep. The path that led toward providence had already been paved and forward _was_ their destiny.

~oOo~

People, slaves to the watches on their wrist, wove and darted around him, their lives dictated and ruled by each tick of the clock, and yet his own life had come to a standstill. No restrictions, no deadlines, no expiration date. A bubble – that was the best way he could explain the fog which filled his day. Separated from life by a thin film of plastic, resilient enough to shield him from the time bomb counting down minute by minute, but not thick enough to completely shield him from the outside world. Jim, Pete, they were both there ... and Simon, handing Jim his bag and shaking his hand. Words, phrases, glimpses of understanding filtered through the protected layers. _"Look after the kid. We'll take care of the loft. It'll be good as new by the time you return. Take as much time as you need."_

And then Simon, up close and too personal, invaded his bubble, squeezing into his confined space, stealing the air from his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. "You take care of yourself, Sandburg. I expect to see you back in the bullpen soon, okay, kid?"

He needed to answer. Answering was the correct thing to do. Answering showed that he was normal, that he had nothing to hide. "I don't think I'll be back, Simon," he replied, before realising his profound mistake. Answering may have been correct thing to do, but answering honestly had let the hornet out of the nest and left him vulnerable to its sting.

"What do you mean you won't be back? Of course you'll be back. You always bounce back, kid."

The sting of failure dug deep. "No, not this time," he heard himself whisper. "I'm not that strong."

And then Simon's arms were on his, his face barely a breath away. "That's a load of crap, Sandburg, and you know it. The Blair Sandburg I know is the most stubborn, strong-willed, tenacious, annoying son of a bitch on the face of this planet. The Blair Sandburg I know would not, for one minute, let that bastard win. He's too strong for that. You're too strong for that."

Failure and humiliation inched closer, the evidence welling in his eyes, threatening to add the loss of respect to his ever-growing list of defeats. But then Jim moved, shifting Simon from his space and restoring the walls of his bubble. People once again darted around him and the time bomb continued its countdown.

~oOo~

Simon was unable to pull his eyes away as Blair disappeared into the tunnel and was wheeled toward the plane. While his head was resolute in the belief that Blair was wrong, his heart wasn't quite so sure. Was this the final blow? The proverbial straw which broke the camel's back? Or would Blair prove his heart to be wrong and bring back to Cascade the man Blair Sandburg once was?

As Simon turned away, he hoped and prayed that the latter would prevail.

~oOo~

Continued in The Bright Touch of the Moon

(Please note that I've rated this story as pre/slash)


	5. The Bright Touch of the Moon

The continuation of this story, The Bright Touch of the Moon, has now been posted. (rated M) Please note that I've listed this story as pre/slash although I've been told you can read it

with your general glasses on. I'll leave that decision up to you!


End file.
